


Cynicism Isn't Wisdom

by Rulerofthefakeempire



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: ;), Amputation, Canon-Typical Violence, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Friends to Lovers, How Jesse loses his arm, I'm an aussie, Jesse McCree is a soft boi, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Ride or Die in like two minutes flat, Swearing, There will be Warnings, Watchpoint: Gibraltar, but not a lot, much swearing, smut towards the end, sorry - Freeform, they both live
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-01
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2019-12-30 16:44:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 85,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18319268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rulerofthefakeempire/pseuds/Rulerofthefakeempire
Summary: “Who are you?" he hissed, "Why are you here?”“Name’s McCree,” the man grinned, pinned against the wall by Hanzo forearm, switch blade pressed firmly against his jugular, “Jesse McCree, friend of your brother.”“My brother?”“Yeah, uh, he's in New Mexico, gettin’ my sisters. He’s got two missions and I only got one, but my girls are a lot less likely to hold knives to his throat.”





	1. The Bear and the Crow

The waiter came with his bill before he’d even finished looking over the wine list.

It slid towards him, across the table cloth, pushed along by a finger with dirt under its nail. Hanzo stared at it, eyes scraping up the sleeve of the arm, all the way up a shoulder, to a beard. The spotty teenager that had seated him was gone, replaced by a man roughly the size of a barge with the same starched collar. The teenager had been lanky, shirt hanging off him in awkward places, but it was stretched tight over the form that loomed above him now. The cuff links were reflected in his water glass, and he wanted to make some scathing comment, but there was something in his belly that hushed him. Some gut feeling took a hold of him and instead he stared, all his muscles coiled.

“Your bill sir, I’ll give you a moment to look over it.” Hanzo looked around, eyes flittering from other waiters, to other patrons, looking for any sign that anyone else was seeing this shit. He might as well have been a bear on its hind legs, apron around its waist. He looked so crooked, standing there, tray high on his shoulder, tall and tanned and so supremely out of place. He sauntered away, smoothing his strange act with confidence. Hanzo watched him wink at a lone dinner, he watched the blush rise in the young man’s throat and tried to figure out if there was some joke he was failing to get.

He pulled the bill towards him, menu set down on the table beside his hand. He peered at it.

 _Shimada_ , the note inside the bill read, _three people, table near the door_.

The firm, printed writing was written in an almost-out-of-ink pen and in parts he had to concentrate to make out the words.

_When I come back say you need to speak to the chef. Follow me out to the kitchen, there is a back exit._

He read the words again, and then once more, searching for further explanation. The spotty teenager had addressed him as Mr Tanaka, as it was on his reservation. And it suddenly dawned on him that whatever he thought was happening wasn’t. He was no longer enjoying a dinner out, he was no longer just sitting, unobserved. He was suddenly the centre of the attention he hadn’t known existed.

Slowly, he closed the bill’s envelope, pressing it flat against his palm. And with all the finesse he could muster, swept his salad fork to the floor. It clattered, but the noise was lost in the chatter of the restaurant. He hadn’t been at this act in years, but when he went to pick it up, he knew just when to look. Muscle memory.

They sat at their table, looking about as covert as crows in skies of parrots. Two men and a woman, leaning away from each other, eyes low, looking as glamourous as they were unapproachable. They looked as though they were more perched than seated. Ready to dart into action at the drop of a hat. But this was not his first tangle with crows, he was not some young mark naive of the risks. He was experienced in this sort of trouble, he had no need for a back exit.

He watched the bear in the waiter’s uniform return, first taking the time to lean over to the young diner, one hand on the back of his chair, the other on the table. Hanzo watched his lips move, and watched the young man getting redder and redder, hiding his flattered smile behind his napkin. The bear gave a customary wink before departing, and Hanzo kept his eyes on the young man, observing him going to the motions of joy and embarrassment. He couldn’t remember ever being that young.

Before he knew it, the bear was standing beside him.

“You need anything, darlin’?”

This time the tranquil smile was given a cold tone by the serious look in his eyes. Now Hanzo had a part to play, the proceedings required that he go along with the script. He found his mouth opening.

“I need to speak with the chef.”

The bear looked at him with sweet relief, his smile turning genuine. As though now was the moment for that. Hanzo frowned at him.

“No problem, sugar.” The bear gestured vaguely, darting behind his chair to take it out for him. Hanzo nearly feel onto his ass with how roughly it was jerked from beneath him. His frown deepened. “If you’d just follow me.” He was lead through the busy restaurant, and he had the sense not to peer over his shoulder at the crows. He had been a crow once, he knew their movements. Knew that they would clock his departure, but not immediately attack. Crows always waited till you were alone and vulnerable.

The bear’s rough hand kept the swinging door open for him, but moment they slipped into the corridor he suddenly realised that they were alone, and he was vulnerable. No witnesses here. The bear walked a few steps ahead of him, moving quickly, trusting him entirely with his most defenceless position. But he’d been a crow once, he knew how it was done. And he was not some child to be strung along.

The switchblade fell from his sleeve and into his palm, a crude weapon, but it did the trick in emergencies. The bear might have been bigger than him, but he’d trained all his life, and he was trusted not to attack. With the switchblade clutched in his left hand, he took the shoulder of the bear and shoved him into the wall with a strength that he still had. He heard the wind get knocked out of him and before he could take another breath, Hanzo pressed the knife to his throat, hard enough to draw blood.

“Dude, what the fuck?”

His eyebrows were together, his mouth frowning, his hands slightly raised as if in surrender. He hadn’t realised it would be that easy, he had been expecting a brawl. Such a big man, such a little knife, he had assumed that he would be underestimated. He slowly traced back and realised that he’d been called “dude” while threatening someone’s life, and it felt weird. He could feel the bear’s heartbeat through his palm on his shoulder and it wasn’t nearly as fast as he wanted it to be.

Blood trickled down the blade.

“Who are you? Why are you here?” he hissed, desperate to feel more in control of the situation.

“Name’s McCree,” he grinned, “Jesse McCree, friend of your brother.”

Things were getting out of hand. None of this made any sense. McCree was grinning at him, like he was excited for his response, like there was none he could give that would displease him. All he could do for a moment was let his eyes dart around, as though Genji was going to jump from a cupboard and yell _‘surprise!’_.

“My brother? Where is he?”

It felt strange that his brother might have a friend, strange to think that he had been living a life out there, in that strange skin he used. That he existed regardless of whether Hanzo could see him, that there were people in this world that liked him, simply for who he was.

“He’s, uh, in New Mexico, gettin’ my sisters. He’s got two missions and I only got one, but my sisters are a lot less likely to hold knives ta his throat.”

McCree grinned nervously at him and Hanzo frowned.

“The same people after me are after your sisters?”

“Well, there more after me than them, and more after Genji than you, but yeah. Sure, darlin’.”

He kept calling him that. From the distance of a few inches, Hanzo tried to get a hold of the situation, staring into his honest face, his scruff, and clear eyes.

“Listen, sweetheart,” McCree began, but Hanzo hushed him, holding his palm to his running mouth. Hanzo got the feeling that left to his own devices McCree might do nothing but natter. And he’d heard a noise; the quick, determined step of a woman wearing heels just short enough to still be able to run in them. With his mouth closed McCree’s ears seemed to prick, eyes turned to the door they’d come through, knife forgotten at his jugular.

With cognizance dawning on his face McCree jumped into action, grabbing his hand, and pulling him down the corridor. Hanzo let himself be pulled along, knife gripped in his fist. This night was getting out of hand, and he could feel it, he was getting sucked into something. And soon they were running, darting around the back-stage veins of the restaurant, heading towards the back alley.

He could hear yelling behind him, the shoes being used for their secondary pase, a breakneck run. McCree pulled him hard, legs longer than his were. He’d pulled a revolver from somewhere, an old one, with a pearl handle and a wild look in his eye. His grin was so wide that Hanzo could see his canines, but he still wished that he had more to defend himself with than an old switch blade.

The moment that their pursuer rounded the corner behind them, they swung around. He was pushed roughly behind the bear, and a shot rang out, and then another, and another, McCree’s arm across him. He watched he first shot enter the left eye of the woman, and the second into the right eye of the man on her tail. They fell to the ground almost in sync, and Hanzo almost let an expression of awe fall upon his face. He’d never seen such fine marksmanship in his life, sans for when the weapon was in his own hands.

And he was pulled onwards, like a trailer swinging behind a sports car, his hand gripped back in the bear’s paw. But it was worse when they reached the darkness of the alley. Waiting for them there was a beautiful motorcycle, American, lipstick red, engine that he could already hear. There were more footsteps behind them, shouting, fear from the patrons and staff. And the final crow, still inside. Still determined to do what he had come to get done. There was a ruthlessness to a crow that was lacking in other birds.

“I’m sorry,” McCree gasped, and Hanzo looked over at him. He had assumed that the third bullet was embedded in a wall somewhere in the corridor, but all the blood had drained from McCree’s face, hand pressed to his left arm. He had hardly moved at the impact, let out not a squeak. “I can’t ride like this.” The red blood blossomed on his white shirt, hands wet. Hanzo could almost see how it had entered him, how it had rushed from the inside of his forearm to his elbow, traveling with the bone. A bad wound. Fear flashed across his face, looking at Hanzo, as though he didn’t know what to do now. Didn’t know how they were going to get away.

Control of the situation delivered itself to Hanzo as if on a silver platter.

“I need your keys,” he said, speaking fast. It had been years since he’d been on one of these, but he was relying a lot on muscle memory today, and so far, it hadn’t gone exceptionally wrong. McCree looked at him, mouth hanging open, before scrambling for his pockets, his left arm limp and bent at his side. He threw them to him, glossy with blood, and Hanzo leapt on the bike because he had been a crow once. He knew when hesitation could kill. McCree got on more gingerly, wrapping his good arm around his waist, like they had known each other for years, like they had slept in the same cot together as children.

The moment that the bike came to life under him, he felt it all return. Like a wave washing over him, he knew where all the buttons were, knew exactly what to do. His feet found the peddles, his hand opened the throttle, and let out the clutch. They roared away like American bikes do and McCree’s hand clutched his shirt.

Behind them the yelling drowned away under the sound of the engine and he felt McCree’s head fall down to his shoulder.

“You’re just full of surprises” McCree purred, “ain’t you, sugar?”

…

The hotel was shitty, and he knew it, but he didn’t know how much money McCree had in his wallet and he was sure that the enemy was tracing his account. He would later learn that together they had two hundred dollars, one and a half packets of cigarettes, a pack of gum, three toothpicks, and a collection of out-of-date gift cards. He left McCree on the ground outside the lobby, with Hanzo’s jacket over his shoulders to cover the blood. This was why people should always wear black when at risk of getting shot. He hid the bike in the alley behind a dumpster, covering it as much as he could with garbage bags and debris.

He told the woman behind the counter that they needed a room, that any would do, and when he received the key, he supported McCree inside, one arm around his waist, other on his wrist, keeping his other arm over his shoulder. The larger man shuddered at his side and he told the woman that he was very drunk. McCree gave her a weak wink, and they stumbled on without further explanation. Things were easier with him in charge, he knew just what to do once McCree became a bleeding duffle bag of a person, all factors were within his control.

Except that McCree was bleeding out and trying to be funny about it.

“Your brother is gonna be so mad at me, I promised ‘im we’d die together. Drivin’ off a cliff like Thelma and Louise,” he crooned from the bathtub where Hanzo had lowered him. He continued to rattle off. He was like a wind chime, responding to every stray breeze. Hanzo didn’t listen to him and instead searched though the draws of the side table for a sewing kit. He found a bible, followed by a box of condoms, some pens, and an earring. He found the sewing kit in the bottom draw and tittered back to the small bathroom. McCree was all limbs in the bathtub, one long leg hanging over the side, one arm cradling the other. He was still making analogies about his death.

“You aren’t going to die. If you were, you would have done it already.”

“Oh, well ain’t you just a ray o’ sunshine.”

Hanzo sneered and threw the small case at him. It landed in his lap and McCree looked at him with something akin to horror in his eyes.

“The fuck is this?”

“A sewing kit, for your wound.”

The expression failed to shift from his face.

“There’s a first aid kit in the saddle bag but thank you for your support.” His neck was bent back, eyes almost closed, hands still. He seemed to fade in and out, dizzily pushing for life before cracking away like the breaking waves.

Hanzo didn’t want to take care of him, but he went for the saddle bag anyway, leaving him to the bathtub and the pop culture references he didn’t understand. When he returned, McCree was standing by the sink, shirtless, cleaning the wound with a warm, wet rag, and the bored eyes of a man for whom pain was no longer a novelty. And Hanzo paused by the door to observe the sight, to properly analyse the moment. McCree was built like an oak tree and bore the scars of a life lived in a constant cycle of conflict and reparation. He was tall, and muscular, and he looked comfortable. He’d taken off his shoes and socks, and his belt was wrapped around his upper arm. And this was just another routine to him, just another familiar gesture.

He looked good, cigarette dangling from his bottom lip, squinting into his own reflection as he pressed and prodded.

“Enjoyin’ the view darlin’?” Hanzo shivered away from the door like he’d been electrocuted, saddle bag in his hands, and he suddenly felt like that young man at the restaurant. To be given his attention felt bright, too bright, like an interrogation light. McCree turned to grin at him, and sure, he wasn’t bad to look at. But he was also clearly unhinged and had been for long enough to be covered in thin, pale scars. Hanzo threw the saddle bag into the room, and it landed on the linoleum with a thump. He offered no help.

“I’ll leave you to it,” he snarled, and slammed the door.

…

The pain got more manageable the more he drank, and he drank as much as he could, straight from the flask. He knew that it would thin his blood, make it all pump faster, increase the risk of rupture, but this wasn’t his first rodeo. Nonetheless, it didn’t matter how many times he stuck a pair of pliers or a pen knife into his own body, it never got easier. This time it was a pair of medical scissors, and he let Ana’s voice work him through it. He could hear her in his head, her soft, but firm hand guiding him, reminding him to mind the muscle, to search for the bullet.

Every now and then the scissors would graze or snip at a nerve and the tears in his eyes would fall, he would squeak and scream through the facecloth he’d stuffed in his mouth. It left him heaving, almost sobbing, but he’d grown into this. After all the times when he'd had to do this, there was something in him that kept his hand steady, some instinct that knew that he’d done this all before. That this was survivable. And it kept his heartrate down.

In the other room there was only silence. He could almost convince himself he was alone, free to scream. But he didn’t look like Genji, not that anyone looked like Genji these days. He’d seen photos though and they didn’t look alike at all. They moved differently. Genji moved like he was constantly skirting around something, like he was trying to take the air itself by surprise. But when Hanzo did things, he did them straight up, no detours, no indirect routes. All his body language was one big _‘fuck you and the horse you rode in on.’_

But his hair had smelt like cherry blossoms and wine. McCree had drunk it in on the back of Charlotte. It had been years since he hadn’t been the rider, and it had felt weird, but okay. Like if he was going to die, he was glad it was at the hands of a Shimada, it felt right.

Finally, he got a hold of the bullet and flung it across the room, it landed in the basin with a satisfying clink. He huffed and pressed the warm towel to the wound. It would heal in time, but for the moment it hurt like a bitch. He took the cloth from his mouth, and gulped down whatever Gabe had been keeping in the flask before he’d stolen it for the mission. It tasted like piss but burned like the good stuff.

…

When he opened the bathroom door Hanzo looked at him like he’d just interrupted an intimate moment between him and his cigarette. The sneer caught him in the throat just like it was meant to. Hanzo tapped the ash from his smoke into the ashtray from where he roosted on the double bed, the newspaper from the desk in the corner open on his knees. It was from three years back, McCree had checked. In his eyes was only disdain, long hair hanging by his face.

“So, are you going to explain to me what’s going on?”

McCree stared at him, blinked, and moved on. He didn’t have enough blood in his body to process the question. He scratched where the bandages met the skin of his elbow. All of the adrenalin that had gotten him this far was subsiding, fatigue was setting in.

“Ah, not right now, darlin’. I gotta call Genji, make sure my sisters are alright.”

And that was true, but it was also true that he wanted to talk to literally anyone else. Hanzo made him feel small, and a bit dull in the head. Hanzo frowned at him, and for what it was worth, he tried not to make eye contact for the rest of the night. Instead he tried to make himself a cup of tea with his limp hand while he dialled. He didn’t even like tea.

Genji answered right away.

“Your sister hit me on the head with a big metal pipe and it hurt.”

That made him chuckle, but he regretted it immediately. He could feel all the connections between his skin, his muscles, how everything moved everything else, from his arm to his throat to his ribs. Any movement anywhere hurt. He tried to ignore his own jagged stitching shifting about, the spots where broken flesh pressed together. He swore under his breath.

“Jesse?” And that was almost concern. More than his brother had managed.

“That’s what happens when you break into people’s houses. I told ya not to do it.”

“Point taken.”

He tried to move around the room, tried to make sure that nothing he said could be interpreted as a knock against either of them. Tried to feel less observed by Hanzo’s razor stare. For a second, he loitered by the bed, going for a cigarette. Hanzo looked like he was considering denying him access to the packet on the side table, but for some reason he allowed it.

“Are the girls okay?”

He pressed the filter to his lips with his good hand, phone between his ear and his good shoulder. Hanzo lit it for him with the look of someone trying to throw his better self overboard.

“They’re fine. We’re on our way to Gibraltar now. How’s Hanzo?”

McCree moved away from him in order to answer the question. He found himself on the balcony, the cool breeze sweet against his hot, traumatised skin. He closed the door behind him and lowered himself carefully into the plastic lawn chair.

“He seems okay. Bad tempered as fuck,” he said in a low voice, not wanting to be overheard. He lay his busted arm in his lap and stared out into the darkness of the street. The chair wasn’t comfortable, but he was. The pain had burned through him like he was a candle with nothing left to set alight. He might as well have been asleep. “Things went down at the restaurant, they advanced a lot faster than I thought they would. Shots were fired.”

He put his feet up on the railing, and Genji was silent on the other end of the phone, his cigarette slowly turning to ash without his attention.

“If he’s fine, then I guess they were shot into you then.”

“Just the one really. You should see the other guys.”

He tried to sound light hearted, but the truth was, he was tired, and this day had been going on for a really long time.

“Are you okay?”

It felt like such a strange thing to be asked, because of course he wasn’t okay. He’d been shot. It was the literal definition of not being okay. But in a way he was, he was tired and hungry, and hurting. But he wasn’t going to die, and for them, that was pretty good.

“I’m fine, I’ll live.”

He rubbed at the dried blood on his belly.

“Where are you now? Are you safe?”

“Yeah, we’re holed up in some dingy hotel. I’ll try to get us to the airport tomorrow, but no promises. Also, if your brother smothers me with a pillow in my sleep I will sue you from beyond the grave.”

“I can accept that.” There was a slow pause and it felt like in the darkness, he might fall asleep there on the balcony, phone to his cheek. “I’d like to speak to him.”

“Your brother?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, but I don’t think I’m going to last much longer. So, if you need to say anything to me, say it to me now.” He was already getting up, struggling to his feet, tugging the sliding door open. 

“Hmm,” Genji hummed, “don’t die, I guess? But if you do I’m keeping your dog.”

“Fair.”

He passed the phone to Hanzo, and then immediately lay himself down, asleep like someone had hit him over the head with a brick. Face down in the bed sheets, he thought of nothing, but the smell of cigarette smoke and cherry blossoms and wine and the pain in his arm.

…

“Brother,” Genji’s voice echoed down the line. They’d spoken a few times after the interaction at Hanamura, the bare minimum of communication, and always in person. But over the phone it was like talking to his brother, his brother that was the same as the brother he’d been age four, and seven, and thirteen. All of their history stretched behind them, clear and complete. But when they spoke in person he couldn’t help but see a history of two halves, fractured, each so different from the other it felt odd that they might be connected.

“Genji,” he stared at the print of a sailboat on the wall, and tried to observe his fingernails, tried to appear nonchalant even though nobody was watching. “You’ve hired a baboon to collect me.” Genji’s response was immediate, and almost angry.

“He’s not a baboon. And I didn’t hire him.” He could almost imagine Genji’s body on the other end of the line, could imagine his eyebrows furrowed, the way he would hunch his shoulders forward. Lithe and limber, the way he would stand. But he had no idea whether he did any of those things anymore. He’d changed so much, Hanzo had made him change. “He is a good man. And he has taken a bullet for your safety. Has it even occurred to you that if it wasn’t in him, it might have been in you?”

It was a fair question, because he hadn’t, but he still didn’t appreciate hearing it from his younger brother, the younger brother that had gotten him into this mess in the first place.

“Do not take that tone with me, I do not treat him improperly, but I owe him nothing.”

“Perhaps you’d like to ask yourself where you’d be this evening if he hadn’t come for you. Not to mention that he has taken care of me, we have worked together for many years now, and he is my friend. If you cannot bring yourself to be grateful, consider it a favour to me that you should treat him well. You might even end up liking him.”

And with that he hung up the phone without even saying goodbye. He didn’t have the energy to be spoken to in that way, he had none of the energy for Genji. Not today, perhaps not even tomorrow. Beside him the bear slept on his belly, snoring quietly, smelling like booze and smoke. His hair just met his shoulders, and his face was turned to the side, one foot hanging off the side of the bed. In hindsight he should have gotten a room with two beds, or better yet two rooms. But in his haste, he’d taken the first available option. He took a drag on his cigarette and his eyes didn’t move.

The truth was that he hadn’t clocked the crows, hadn’t noticed them, and there was no guarantee that he would have done. And maybe if he hadn’t threatened McCree in the corridor they might have gotten away clean, all bullets in their chambers instead of bodies, out into the night with hardly a hitch in the plan. McCree hadn’t mentioned it, even though Hanzo was sure he knew. He could have yelled, told him that if he’d just trusted him, just taken his explanations at face value, he’d be there in one piece. But in that alley, with the realisation that he had no way of getting them out of harm’s way, all the bear had done was apologise.

With as little movement as possible he brushed the hair from McCree’s cheek with his pinkie finger. He took a drag on his cigarette and crushed every thought that thought too deeply.

All he’d planned on doing was going out to dinner, all he’d wanted was a nice meal and to go to sleep in his own bed, maybe get a little drunk. But instead, before he slept in this hired room, he pulled McCree’s other leg onto the bed, and turned him over so that his head was in the middle of his pillow. He tucked McCree’s arm to his belly so that it wouldn’t hurt as much when he woke up and tugged the blanket over him.

He slept with his back to the bear, and could only imagine all the other places he could have been sleeping besides this.

 


	2. First Ditch Effort

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so things I forgot to mention in chapter one. Ah, the title is from a song Cynicism by Nana Grizol, and it's dope, so you should check it out. And also, there is swearing, most of it good natured, but some not. In chapters where theres swearing in a not good natured way, I'll write here. Also also, you don't need to understand the Spanish McCree is talking. I thought about tangling with good translate, but in the end, it's from Hanzo's perspective most of the time, and he doesn't speak Spanish. 
> 
>  
> 
> Anyway, enjoy I guess.

“Oh… _fuck_.”

The sunlight came through in folds, filtered through the slats of the blinds, spread out on the carpet. He sat on the edge of the bed, hunched over his knees, arm held tenderly, but he couldn’t remember sitting up, or how he’d come to be there, squinting at the floor. He rubbed at his wrist, felt the conversation between the nerves in his hand and the nerves in his arm. They screamed. He swallowed thickly. Something burned in him, some fragment, some invasive species that he’d sealed in. The world swam around him. And he shouldn’t have felt so sick. This wasn’t his first bullet, this wasn’t his first bad bullet, but whatever this was, it roared through him, and he could hardly think clearly enough to process it.

His body told him to wallow, his body told his eyes to close, his shoulders to slacken and to fall backwards into fever. But the part of him that spoke with his sister’s voice told him that everything feels easier once you’ve brushed your teeth and showered. _“_ _Brush your teeth, you_ _’_ _ll feel fresher,_ _”_ she’d said when he was eight and had chicken pox. _“_ _Have a wash, brush your teeth, you_ _’_ _ll be fine,_ _”_ she’d said the first time he crawled home hungover.

And he’d done it then, and he’d do it now. Like it was loyalty, like the first ditch effort for any ailment. He stood like a poorly designed tower and roamed, moving from bedside, to kettle table, to bathroom, to the bedside again. He searched the room and found nothing like coffee worth consuming, little food, and hardly a third of the cigarettes they’d had the night before. The air was warm around him, dry and still, he swayed.

Hanzo slept with an angry expression, like he was dreaming about someone cutting in front of him in line, his eyebrows furious even in sleep, the corners of his mouth turned down. His hair was spread out on the pillow behind his head, looking asleep like the dead. If he was anything like Genji McCree wouldn’t expect him up before eleven. It felt strange that this was the first time they were meeting. He’d always been there, just outside the door, at Hanamura and every meeting after, strangling some unlucky guard, keeping risks at bay so that the delicate negotiation could take place. He’d heard Hanzo’s voice through walls, seen his shadow cast on floors from windows, seen his face in the photos Genji had shown him.

In the flesh he melted the reality around him, he was vivid. There was no second guessing about the person he might be, he rode high in his saddle. His face was pale, his cheekbones high, his facial hair precisely groomed. He was sculpted by his own hand to be exactly as he wanted. And there was something vaguely charming about him. Something irrepressible, ruthless, almost honest.

McCree smiled down at him.

…

Hanzo sat bolt upright in bed the moment he woke up, like someone had lit fireworks up his spine. His head swung around, but the room was empty, and he was alone. He could see the places that McCree must have been, where the blankets were tossed aside, where the tea caddy had been dug through but not used, where the bathroom door was ajar. He could see his movements like muddy footprints at a crime scene. The saddle bag was turned out on the bed, the holster, revolver, and hat all missing. His wallet was gone from the nightstand, his boots gone from the door.

In the night when he’d fluttered close enough to consciousness to feel the universe around him he’d clocked the warmth in the sheets, and the feeling of McCree’s knuckles pressing into his back. And when he’d fluttered once again the knowledge was in him in an instant that he was gone.

He looked around the room, straining for some detail that might have helped, might explain how he’d let it come to this. Unwashed hair, unfamiliar room, empty stomach. The light from outside was reflected in the keychain on McCree’s keys, a bullet casing, the key for the bike still attached. And it occurred to him that if he was going to remove himself from this situation, now would be the moment. He could take the bike, get to his apartment and get out of the city before midday. It wouldn’t have been the first time he’d moved overnight.

He would be fine.     

The door burst open with a bang and the moment ended. There was no simple escape, only the wriggling, wrenching back of agency. He jumped, hair on end, alarm bells in his ears. But it was just McCree, having kicked the door in with his boot, standing in the doorway, nattering into a brand-new burner phone, held between his shoulder and his ear, carrying more than he should have been able to with one arm. He’d made a make-shift sling from last night’s shirt, the bloody bits cut out. His hair was damp and lifting away from his face, Hanzo’s jacket still over his shoulders, as though once you drench a garment in your blood it becomes yours. He held a tray of coffees in his good hand, a plastic bag hanging from his pinkie finger.

McCree grinned when he saw him, mid conversation with whoever he was on the phone with.

 _“_ _No te preocupes por eso, estaremos bien. Danos un d_ _í_ _a._ _”_ He spoke his Spanish fast and loose, and Hanzo could only understand bits and pieces. _“_ _Shimada y yo llegaremos a la casa segura al caer la noche. Dejo encendida la luz del porche._ _”_ His ears pricked at his own name but didn’t move. He just stared, sullen and silent as McCree smiled at him, setting the tray down on the bedside table, nodding along to a distant voice. _“_ Yeah, yeah _, adios, jefe._

McCree dropped the phone onto the bed and held a coffee out to him.

“I didn’t know what you liked so I just got you plain.” He held it out like it was an offering to a distant god, like he was trying to win the favour of some galactic force. And if Hanzo took it from his hand he would be making a promise he wasn’t nearly strong enough to keep. He took it anyway and McCree reached into his sling and pulled out a fresh pack of cigarettes. “Come on, lets smoke together. I’ll tell you everything.”

“Thank you,” he said through gritted teeth. The bear didn’t even look back at him.

“It ain’t nothing.”

But it fucking was.

McCree lowered himself into the chair like a shark being lowered back into the ocean, and for the first time Hanzo noticed the sweat on his brow, and the way he held his hands together, steadying himself. He said nothing of it as he lit McCree’s dangling cigarette. The bear nodded to him in thanks. He leant back on the rail, smoke to the sky, coffee in his hand, and observed as softly as he could. He knew he came across harsh, but Genji had asked a favour of him, the first one in many years, and he had decided it was the least he could do. McCree stared out into the street, rubbing at his beard.

“Who was that on the phone?” He knew he had no right to know, but he knew it wasn’t his brother. He’d spent their language lessons playing with beetles in the garden. McCree looked at him like he’d forgotten that he was there, blinking.

“Gabe,” as though he was supposed to know who Gabe was. “He runs the department me and Genji work for. He’d just heard from yer’ brother, told ‘im what happened, wanted to know the plan.” Hanzo nodded as though that information meant anything to him and looked out into the street. He wondered if they could be seen from the sidewalk. He thought not and drank more coffee.  

“You said you were going to explain?”

It seemed to him that McCree was only capable of holding a thought in his head for a couple minutes at a time. Like a goldfish he let them go. Hanzo didn’t smile at the thought, but it was hard work.

“Oh yeah, sure, darlin’. So Genji told ya about what we do, right? We, like, fight crime and that. But big crime,” McCree made a hand gesture with his cigarette that didn’t seem to signify anything at all. “So, a couple weeks back we got this real vague threat from no one in particular, me and Genji. I got folks back in the states that ain’t no one’s supposed to know about, but, hey, they seemed to know.” If the concept of his _“_ _folks_ _”_ being in danger distressed him, he chose not to show it on his face, batting over the topic as if they weren’t important. But if he’d sent Genji to protect them, they must have been.

“Go on,” he urged.

“Well, we’re not real good with threats, so we decided to trace the messages back as far as they would go, but the tracks stopped cold somewhere in the middle of the Mexican wilderness. Just this one transmitter in the middle of nowhere, still sending us, and only us, these weird messages.” More hand gestures. “And they were after Genji too, he’s got a fella, and he’s got you. The fella’s on a mission in Cairo so we figured they wouldn’t go for him, so you became the primary target.”

A crow flew overhead and Hanzo watched it, eyes narrow, trying to figure out what McCree might mean by _“_ _fella_ _”_ _._ He dismissed it.  

“We never meant to come get you, we figured you could take care of yourself. But a couple days back we received a very clear description of your whereabouts. I mean, it wasn’t sent to us, just to Genji-”

“So it was a trap,” Hanzo could feel his mouth curling into a sneer, hardly even voluntary. The fact that he was still being used as leverage against Genji got him in the stomach. He felt the blow in his gut and it left him carved out on the inside. His mouth curled so that it wouldn’t show the anxiety. The lesser of two evils.

“Yeah. Well, we figured that too. And he wanted to come get ya’, he really did, but we all collectively decided that that was a real shitty idea. So, we figured out this plan. I said I would come get ya and he would go get my sisters to throw them off. Had no idea they would advance so quickly.” McCree spoke about the restaurant as _“_ _getting him_ _”_ as though he were being picked up, given a ride. “We figured that they’d be expecting some dude looking like an Xbox, and he really was ready to come for you, so they sure as shit wouldn’t be expecting-” He stopped short. “Are you okay?” His good hand landed on Hanzo’s wrist from where it dangled by his side, the pads of his fingers pressed to his veins, and it took Hanzo a second to rip it away from the warm touch. His eyes narrowed to villainy, and suddenly the gaze he had gone to such efforts to smother was back with ferocity.

McCree looked at him with concern, cigarette dangling from his bottom lip, eyebrows together, leaning in his chair.

“I’m _fine_ ,” he hissed. McCree almost flinched. It felt strange that this was what got him. Every time he saw Genji, heard his voice, there was never any inkling of positive feeling. He’d never allowed himself to be glad he was alive, but Genji had wanted to come for him and it only confirmed the deep-belly feeling he felt, that he was not worth it. He blew out a puff of air and looked back towards the street, swapping cigarette for coffee and back again as though there needed to be something in his mouth to keep him from saying something cruel.

“Listen, Hanzo, listen. I know you hate this.”

It was the first time he’d used his first name, and when Hanzo looked at him his eyes were clear and pleading. He held onto the sleeve of Hanzo’s shirt and didn’t smile.

“I know you hate this, but I need to get back to my people now,” his voice was firm, a change of priorities in his face, something close to despair, “I don’t know what I did, but I fucked it all up. And I know that you can take care of yourself and stuff. But those people probably won’t stop coming for you, and they won’t stop coming for me, or for Genji. So, we can either split, run to three separate corners of the earth and make it hard. Or we can go someplace safe all together, fortify the fuck out of it, and make it hard.” The grip on his sleeve tightened, and Hanzo glanced at it. “And, I figure, the closer you are to your brother, the easier it’s going to be to protect him.” 

He ripped his sleeve from McCree’s hand and he let it fall, even though his eyes didn’t waver. Caramel eyes. Hanzo sneered on accident.

“How dare you make comments on my movements,” he snapped. McCree receded back into his chair like the tide and hid under his hat. “I have no need of your advice.”

“I know you don’t. I didn’t mean to imply nothin’.” He sipped his coffee slowly, like he was carefully crafting his next sentence, eyes off to the side. “But I’ll need to go soon. I don’t wanna be a burden, and I can’t force you to come with me, but I’d appreciate it if you would give me a ride.” McCree scratched his shoulder and winced. “You can keep Charlotte, I stole her anyways.”

He could feel the inside of his cheek getting numb between his teeth, refusing to make eye contact like a belittled toddler, hand back by his side like he was hoping McCree might take it again, might make another case. Together they stared out into the morning, sun streaming down.

He would take McCree to the airport. He was wounded, he needed help, he was asking for help. It appealed to some ornamental sense of honour in him, unused most days.

“I mean, it’s not like we’ll shackle you to a radiator or nothin’. It’ll just be easier to coordinate if we’re all in the one place for a second or two.”

Genji was laughing at him, somewhere out there. Having sent this bear of a man to take a bullet for him, having constructed the perfect scenario in which he would be forced to decide which direction to flee. And Genji laughed because he was taking the bait. McCree wasn’t looking at him, cigarette on his lips, his arm limp in his lap. His eyes were sunken into his head, his face hallow.

Genji had told him to think about where that bullet might have been if not for McCree’s arm, and he hadn’t meant to. It had happened anyway. It was dawning on him that no matter what angle he came at it from, the bear had probably saved his life, arm parallel with heart. He was indebted regardless of cigarette or coffee; the deed was done. At some point he was just running up his tab.

“I will accompany you back to your people,” he said. Neither of them looking at each other. “After that my debt will be paid.” He could feel McCree’s eyes on him.

“You don’t owe me nothin’, sweetheart.”

…

Hanzo had taken to Charlotte like a fish to water, but he went around corners like he was trying to win an argument with physics. They raced between cars, around curbs, swinging wildly and McCree held all of his muscles as still and tight as he could. The delirium of pre-death had left him, and all he was left with was pain and not enough limbs to properly cling to a vehicle ridden by a madman. At moments it felt as though the bike was going to slip from under him, like his atoms couldn’t move fast enough to keep up and he would just go flying across the asphalt like an unlucky plastic wrapper.

Hanzo didn’t seem to mind for his discomfort till they reached the airport parking lot and he had to sit down in a trolley ramp, clutching his arm, trying desperately to ward off nausea. He could feel the fever in him, could feel it growing, sweaty and old, and even the appendages without bullet holes in them ached.

He’d called Angela that morning, bypassing Gabe entirely, called her mobile and everything, phone number for emergencies. She was unshakable. To her, all bodies could be repaired, all lives were salvageable. His included. She would be waiting for him when they arrived.

“What is wrong with you?” Hanzo stood a few feet away with his arms crossed, eyes narrow, covered in the bags they’d collected from his apartment, mouth all twisted. And there was one part of McCree that was screaming, and yelling, and angry. But the part of him that spoke with his sister’s voice told him to leave it be. Hanzo had asked for this even less than he had. He was no more than a bystander.

“’M sick,” he croaked, trying to still the world, head in his hand. “I’ve got an infection.” He rubbed at his eyes, and around him the universe wobbled and shuddered. The concrete he sat on was jelly until a hand landed on his shoulder from the din of a thrumming world; fingers, a palm and everything. He looked up and there was Hanzo, knelt beside him, dressed in fresh clothes, showered and shaved. He smelt like aftershave and coffee.

“You need a doctor,” he said, and that was true. “Where are your people?” His face swayed before him like an ocean, and he tried desperately to gain control. It was like if he just pinned down all the things he was feeling, the nausea, the confusion, he would be able to counteract them. But they swam away, unidentifiable and baffling.

“Gibraltar,” he stammered and Hanzo nodded like he was familiar, eyes flittering about, hand on his shoulder like a tether. McCree was grateful for it.

“You have a plane?”

McCree nodded.

“A pilot?”

“Machine does it for you. It knows where to go.”

 _It knows where to go_ , he thought again. Because he didn’t.

…

He sat in the co-pilot seat, seatbelt undone, staring at McCree’s face, limp against his shoulder. Hanzo bit at his fingernails. Most of the deaths he’d ever witnessed had been half seconds long, the half-lives of gadflies, but this was drawn out. He wasn’t even dying, just decaying before his eyes, the death blossoming from within him, undergoing a civil war down to his cells. He knew that McCree was capable of consciousness, he could be roused. But he conserved his energy like it was fuel. Like a man familiar enough with panic to know when it might kill him.

He’d laughed his way through the airport, joking, winking in every direction, his pallor getting paler by the minute. But he’d been heavy against him, their hips pressed together, his legs weak. Hanzo had handed over the papers McCree had given him, listened to him rant on about getting shot to the young woman behind the desk, listened to him convince her that he really was who he was, even if they were there weeks in advance. Watched him grin, charming words flowing out of him, but had felt his good hand gripping the back of his shirt for dear life. Nothing had showed on his face.

It had taken hours to get through the airport. There had needed to be checks, reassessments, decisions made, hours lost.

Hours he suspected McCree did not have in him.

When they’d first sat down in the cockpit, he’d yelled as Hanzo had accidentally dragged the seatbelt against the wound, a snarling, garbled noise erupting from him. And when he’d startled against the noise, McCree had reached out, eyes cloudy, put his hand on Hanzo’s knee, and patted it. He’d never met a man who’s first instinct was to comfort, that when boiled down to his most basic ingredients, sieved through the finest sieve, still wanted to reach out.

The noise of McCree’s phone made him notice how he’d stopped noticing the sound of the engine beneath them. It buzzed and jingled from the breast pocket of Hanzo’s jacket, and as gingerly as he could, he removed it. He didn’t know the number, but he could recognise his own brother’s name as it blinked at him from the screen. McCree’s face writhed with almost wakefulness, before settling with a hand on his shoulder. It was remarkable how easy it was to convince him that he was guarded, all it took was touch or two and he sunk downwards, back into his fever, comforted. He felt safe. Hanzo had never made anyone feel safe.

“Jesse,” the voice came over the phone. His brother called the bear Jesse, “Gabe said you made it to the ship?” To Genji, this was a normal conversation. A conversation he’d been having for years with this man, back and forth, actual voices. Regardless of whether the body he inhabited had always been his. Hanzo stared out the windscreen, into the clouds, and a sort of mourning filled him.

“There is something very wrong with your friend, Genji,” he said quietly in Japanese, so that McCree wouldn’t hear, listening to the silence on the other end of the phone. “He is sick, an infection.” He fiddled with the ends of his hair, pulling his pony tail over his shoulder. McCree opened one eye and slid it over to him, Hanzo waved away his gaze with the back of his hand.

“Where is the wound?” The voice echoed down the line like it had been crafted from paper, carefully offered.

“His left arm, he won’t let me near it.” He’d tried in the bathroom of the airport, tried to see if there was anything that could be done with a tiny bottle of whiskey, and a newly purchased t-shirt made from the softest cotton he could find. McCree had drunk the whiskey before he could do anything and when he’d tried to unwrap the hastily bound bandages the bear had damn near growled at him. After that he’d tucked his arm into his shirt and tied a knot in his sleeve. He kept it curled against his belly, the most vulnerable part of him.

“Genji?” McCree mouthed silently, still only one eye open like he could only operate one at a time. Hanzo nodded and put his own hand over his corresponding eye. Obligingly, McCree’s eyelid slid shut, content for him to manage his own brother.

“And it’s an infection?” Genji asked over the line.

“So he tells me.”

And suddenly the pauses were over, and they were united in a singular goal. For the first time in years. And Genji was explaining to him where the first aid kit was, and just how hard he was going to need to stab him in the arm with a needle. The antibiotics came in a small vial, and it was nothing he hadn’t done before, but it was comforting to have Genji there, working him through it. Telling him exactly what he was telling himself.

“But he won’t let me touch him.” he whispered into the phone, a couple feet away, hand around his mouth as if McCree might know Japanese.

“Tie him to the chair or something,” Genji answered immediately, “it’s nothing he hasn’t seen before.”

But there was no need for that, he’d gotten good at this. He knew that McCree was soothed by the barest of touches, any confirmation that he was taken care of. It was hard to say whether McCree knew he was there, standing between his knees, syringe held in his teeth as he unbuttoned his shirt. But Hanzo continued regardless, looking down at him. McCree’s body had been built from hard work. Hard work not in the safety of a training centre, but out in the world where things had needed to be done. He had grown under the sun, and his skin reflected it; the scars on his chest pale and raised, spider webs across him. His shoulders were freckled, and almost charming.

It tugged at him uncomfortably to put his hand on McCree’s shoulder, and know that McCree thought himself safe. But if McCree died before they reached Gibraltar, all his efforts would be for naught. He was doing what he had to. One hand on McCree’s collarbone, the other clutching the syringe, he found the best spot before pushing the needle past his skin just below his elbow and darting back as quick as he could.

McCree lurched forward in his seat, straining against the seat belt, suddenly frightened, wide eyed, afraid like a child awoken from a nightmare, a gasp caught in his throat. For a second, he was blinking, hand going to cover the place where Hanzo had attacked him, pulling it close to his skin, but his fear only took a moment to disappear under a veil of anger, lip curling back.

“The fuck was that? What did you give me?” His voice was a growl, his chest rising and falling with quiet fear, like a threatened animal shrinking into a corner, tail between his legs, hackles raised.

Hanzo growled back, shoulders taunt, suddenly finding himself defensive and angry back.

“Antibiotics, for your infection. Do _not_ snap at me,” he hissed.

He sounded like his father, standing there with his shoulders up, and his eyes fierce, snarling through gritted teeth.

McCree retreated back into his chair, his fear leaving him in a half second flat, and his anger left starved. Just like that, there one minute and gone the next. And Hanzo remembered the hall where he’d pressed the blade to his throat, where he had tensed every part of him for a fight. Where none had come. And he’d had the words ready, the second he’d picked up the syringe, he’d known what he was going to say, the things he was going to yell. But McCree heard him when he spoke, heard the words _“_ _antibiotics, for your infection,_ _”_ and he needed nothing else. Even clouded by fear and betrayal, he could see an honest answer in the fray. 

That was more than Hanzo had ever managed before.

“Oh,” McCree said quietly, an almost shameful look on his face, “sorry, darlin’. He rubbed his face with his hand, his bad arm already tucked back into his shirt, like he was afraid Hanzo would try again.

Hanzo sighed, his own anger still burning hot in his belly, all his words still in him, buzzing. Ready to get angry at the drop of a hat.

“Genji told me that there is a rest area in this ship, I think you should lie down until we land.”

“Whatever you say, pumpkin,” the brief moment of clarity was fading from McCree’s eyes as quickly as it had come, gingerly dragging himself upwards. For a moment he swayed, concentrating on his own weight, like he’d forgotten how he’d limped around the airport, how heartily he’d clung to his side. Hanzo watched him cautiously, arms crossed across his chest, eyes darting to the steps McCree was going to have to descend.

It didn’t matter, he took two steps and collapsed, and Hanzo fled forward to catch him, arms out, reaching for him, McCree’s eyes rolling into the back of his head, all colour gone from his cheeks. He caught his body in slow motion, arms around his chest, McCree grunting into his ear, body collapsed over him, huffing in pain.

And Hanzo kept them up, propping McCree against his side like a ladder against a wall, wrapping his arm around his waist, his hand searching for his wrist. Hanzo had never gotten so used to touching another human being so quickly before, creeping carefully down the stairs, nothing but natural. McCree’s head sagged against his shoulder, and he shuddered violently at even the barest weight he asked himself to carry. Hanzo supported him down the stairs, because McCree had done his work. He’d kept them alive, gotten them out of danger, and now it was his turn. His turn to carry them both.

…

Displeasure made itself known in his belly as he sat, aggression displaced and inconsistent. McCree made him feel as though there were things to be angry about all around him, crawling over his skin, tugging at his hair. But there just wasn’t enough fault with him, nothing worth yelling at, nothing worth abandoning him over. He was just a man in pain, a man who yelled little, and had given him all the victories he’d been willing to fight for.

Hanzo told himself that he sat by the bed to make sure that he didn’t die, boots up on the mattress, looking anywhere but him. But he listened to him breathing, trying not to be comforted by the steady sound, trying to ignore this feeling in his chest.

All he had to do was keep this man alive, all he had to do was protect him, repay his debt, all he had to do was get him back to his people. Hope that he could retreat back into the darkness when the time came, hope that they wouldn’t expect him to stay.

He could only hope that he would be able to untangle himself from his brother and his pet bear, that he could keep him alive long enough that they might distract each other so that he could get away.

Anxiety pooled in him, this feeling of not knowing what tomorrow was going to bring.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, no one dies either. Btw. And I really dug the idea of Hanzo giving Jesse his jacket to wear over his shoulders so get ready to read that shit a lot.


	3. Debts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so when I was writing this chapter, it started out that I figured McCree would be pretty chill about loosing his arm, just another scar right? But the more I thought about it, the more ridiculous it seemed. 
> 
> I really tried to think hard about the effect that loosing a limb would have on someone, especially someone as physical as McCree. I would be going through my life and suddenly think, 'if I only had one arm, I wouldn't be able to do this, at all.' And thats a hardcore thing for someone to go through. Not to mention, the fact that it is a fundamental change to the shape of your body. A change to how you think of your body, how your body looks; a basic, fundamental, life changing shift. Wrapped up in it's own grieving process, a period of mourning for the body you used to have. 
> 
> And from Hanzo's perspective, it's one thing to kill someone who's trying to kill you, its is a very different thing to hold yourself accountable for someone becoming an amputee, and an amputee they'll be for the rest of their lives. Like I think that would wreck me, completely and utterly. 
> 
> So this is essentially the chapter where no one has any chill. At all. 
> 
> Warnings: 
> 
> \- Brief description of wound
> 
> \- What is essentially an anxiety attack, though it is never referred to as such
> 
> \- Not cool swearing
> 
> \- Le petite brawl
> 
> Anyway, thats enough of my philosophical ramblings.

He woke up with the decent, eyes blinking at the ceiling; the manufactured light making shadows on the ceiling panels, and he was so tired. He must have been asleep for hours, but he was still  _so_  tired. He was sweating through the sheets, but shivered with every air-conditioned draft. Every breath taxed him, every blink, and yet he could feel the pressure in his ears, the weightlessness of the ship moving steadily downwards setting in. His body had been preparing him for death, constantly reminding him that if he was dead he wouldn’t be in so much pain right now. But something else was starting to whisper in his ear. Something softer; some quiet, distant voice, telling him how close he was, he was so close, something that prepared him for home

Just a little bit longer.

He breathed, he kept breathing, decided to keep breathing.

Hanzo slept in the chair beside the bed, boots up, chin down on his chest and his arms crossed across his chest. McCree could only gaze at him, captivated by the look of him, by his incredible stillness. Genji slept like a baby lion. When they’d shared a room way back, McCree would wake up with him splayed over his bed, limbs in all directions, linen on the floor, pillow on his head, the other under his arm like he’d faced foes in his sleep. Hanzo slept like a stone sunk to the bottom of the ocean.

McCree’s eyes scraped over Hanzo’s sleeping face, over his eyes, down the bridge of his nose, against his jawline. He had the longest eyelashes he’d ever seen, and McCree could see his tattoo through his shirt. It was in all the pictures. It was in the one Genji had given him when he’d set out on this mission, it was still tucked into his wallet somewhere. _Dragons,_ Genji had told him, back when they’d first met. _There are dragons in us_ , he’d said. But he’d been high on pain pills at the time, it wasn’t until they started fighting together did he realise it wasn’t a metaphor.

He remembered how afraid he’d been when he first saw it, deep in his bones, a childish kind of fear, the kind of fear that he could smell on his own skin for days afterwards. But he’d gotten over it, and it had become mundane. He wondered if Hanzo’s dragons would become mundane; just another pair of ancient, infinitely powerful spirits, tethered to the man sleeping in the chair beside his bed.

He smiled at the thought, at his nice hair and comfortable shoulders. He was lovely to look at and McCree looked at him with indulgence, could have looked at him for hours, smiling, dizzy. He liked the way that Hanzo spoke level and firm, the way he refused to make eye contact, liked the way he defended himself, suffered no fools. He watched Hanzo huff in his sleep, and exhausted contentment filled him, kept him alive.

He was going home, he was being delivered like a baby in a basket, he was so close.

Hanzo didn’t stir.

…

When they landed it was dark outside, and hands were waiting for them at the bottom of the ramp. They reached out, and he tried his best to swat them away. Somewhere in the decent strong fingers came to his elbow, firmly guiding him forward until he felt the crunch of broken concrete under his boots, and McCree tripping against his side, arms around each other. McCree grumbled, voice straining, to the figures in the darkness, far from the buildings, far from the floodlights he could see in the distance. Hanzo listened to him pulling rank, listened to him refusing to be taken into their unfamiliar arms.

A warm dread bubbled through his belly, a horrified kind of glee.

He kept him leaning on his side, kept his arm firm around his waist, letting the hand on his elbow tug them onwards. The darkness was so encompassing that it left him navigating by the sound of his own footsteps, the lights up ahead, holding onto McCree like he was a messenger, delivering something dying.

They shuddered forward together, escorted by the darkness and the figures there, limping slowly towards the lights. McCree’s breath was hot on his collarbone, coming raggedly now, smelling like sweet sickness, and the efforts he made to keep himself upright. Around them the wind whistled and howled, tugging at his hair. He pulled McCree’s good arm further over his shoulders, inching closer and closer to the floodlights until he could just make out two silhouettes, waiting for them in the light. 

The second he felt the light on his face they advanced on them and McCree gasped for them, his head raised just high enough to know that it was them that he wanted, that he had waited for. Hanzo stopped in his tracks as they strode towards them like a storm front rolling in, a man and a woman. The man reached them first, tall and built like a bank safe, beanie pulled over his head and a dark look in his eyes. His hands reached out as he approached and to his surprise, McCree reached back, his good arm moving out from behind him and reaching for the man.

The man took McCree from him, wrapped arms around his chest and didn’t ask for permission, no hesitation. There was something in his face that made it clear that McCree was his to carry, McCree’s pain his to bear, in his custody, under his protection. More security than Hanzo could ever provide. And all he could do was watch McCree collapse into him like a ship into safe harbour, gone from his arms in a half-second flat, watch his shoulders sag in relief.

“Jesus Christ,  _mijo_. What did you do to yourself?” the man spoke to McCree in soft, angry tones, damn near taking his whole weight, big arms around his torso, military posture. McCree was slumped barely alive against his chest and the woman fluttered over them, taking his vitals, stroking his cheeks, pushing the hair out of his eyes. She was smaller than both of them by some way, slight and poised, her blond hair piled on the top of her head, her lab coat floating behind her, stark in the darkness. She glowed.

Neither of them casted an eye towards him. He was furniture to them.

He crossed his arms across his chest and tried not to feel cold, tried not to feel the absence of McCree’s familiar heat against his side. He stared at the ground and tried not to feel anything at all. Indifferent, like he was nothing to this situation, back to being a bystander. He tried to look as unaffected as a bird high above a battlefield, eyes turning to the empty sky, the wind blowing around him.  

When his eyes flickered back to them the man’s glare was on him, burning into him, eyes narrowed, a snarl on his lips, all canines, wolves in his eyes. McCree was back slack in his arms again, but his eyes demanded answers, explanations.

There were none he could offer, there was nothing he could give except their bear, back in his arms. Broken.  

…

The inside of the building was lit in high light like the ship had been, the light bulbs hanging shade-less from the ceiling, all the walls white, all the carpets grey, the floors linoleum. It wasn’t a new building, not updated since it had been built. But it was warm and dry, and that was enough. The military man muttered rueful things in Spanish under his breath and Hanzo walked a few paces behind the gurney he pushed, trailing like a school child, not sure he’d even been invited to stay.

The faceless agents that had received them from the ship had melted into the buildings and suddenly it was just the three of them, McCree passed out on the gurney, hardly responding.

It didn’t take long to reach a med bay, a room big enough to hold a swimming pool, cavernous, almost three dozen beds with no one in them, half the room bathed in darkness, the moonlight shedding shadows on the floor. The man pushed McCree into a small operating theatre down the far end, and he tottered after him, the woman switching lights on, no sense of urgency even as McCree shivered violently against the plastic sheets. Hanzo hovered at his head, just making sure that he kept breathing, just to make sure that he didn’t die the second he made it home.

He listened, eyes following the man and the doctor roaming, talking in hushed voices, preparing a kidney dish, scalpel and probes, watching them with his heart pounding in his throat. Like enemy territory was etching itself into his skin; like any second now, Genji was going to burst through the door and finally take his revenge.

His eyes trailed downwards to McCree’s face, his hands either side of his head, and the bear was looking at him, cheeks hollow, and his pallor essentially green. He blinked slowly.

“Hey,” he mouthed.

“Hello,” Hanzo mouthed back.

He looked back up, and both of them were staring. He flinched like he’d been burned, and neither of them smiled; the man almost curled his lip. The woman moved to McCree’s side, his wounded side, kidney dish placed on a stool beside her, and began to explain her movements. McCree’s eyes closed again, and Hanzo listened to him breathing.  

“Jesse, I’m just going to remove these bandages real quick. See what we’re dealing with,” she spoke with a soft Swiss accent, gloves on her slender hands. Hanzo watched and tried not to feel the man’s missile launch glare on his temple as he came to the other side of the bed.

Her fingers found the edges of the gauze, the makeshift sling cut away and discarded on the floor. He’d known it was going to be bad when McCree hadn’t let him touch it, when he’d stopped being able to take his own weight, but it was so much worse that he’d imagined. The stitches had disappeared beneath swollen, discoloured skin, covered in layers upon layers of dried blood, and beneath that the sickness was in him. The smell was overpowering, visceral.

He heard his heartbeat in his eardrums.

McCree’s face twisted and where he had growled, he began to mewl, like a little kid, like an animal in pain, eyes squeezed closed. And the missile launch glare was gone from the side of Hanzo’s face in an instant and the man came to McCree’s side, hands on him, pressing him back into the bed. Hanzo withdrew like a gift taken back.

“It’s okay,  _mijo_. We’ve got you now,” the man said, voice low, eyes only on the bear. And Hanzo suddenly felt as though he was intruding, like he’d stumbled in on something very intimate. It was hard to see someone comforted, hard to see how poor of a substitute he’d been.

“Oh yes,” the woman said. She said nothing rushed. “This arm is going to need to come off.”

They snapped to attention like she had thrown her kidney dish to the floor and before he could stop himself he was speaking through bared teeth.

“What the  _fuck_  do you mean it’s going to need to come off?” It came out more like an insult than a question. More argumentative than he’d meant it, but he’d been operating on the basis that all this was repairable. That they could be put back together, that when they parted ways they’d both be as whole as they’d been to begin with. That they could recover.

His blood rushed through his ears, the muscles in his shoulders coiled, and his breathing grew rapid like he couldn’t take in enough breath in one gulp, like there wasn’t enough air in the room. He felt his face contort like crumpled metal, his eyebrows colliding, mouth twisting. And suddenly noise was all around him, he could feel the walls baring down on him, on the possibilities, all his failures taking shape in the shadows.

She only gazed at him, as if he was nothing she had not studied and subdued before. She shook her head.

“He is too sick, we don’t amputate he’ll die.”

He writhed under the concept, the idea that it was him, always taking and taking and taking, out of control, powerless to stop McCree’s arm from leaving him, hopeless, helpless, needing to be saved and robbing those that came to do so. And suddenly he was reaching out, hand around her gloved wrist from where she prodded at the wound, fingers tight around her frail joint. He could have snapped her over his knee. His upper lip rose as if he was still a wild animal, baring his canines, nose crinkling.  

She looked up at him, blank and unafraid.

“You cannot do this,” he spat, “there must be something else you can do,” he was snarling, “I will not allow this, I will not allo-” And the growl that came out of him was an old sound, a sound from when he’d been a far angrier soul, “get the  _fuck_  away from him!” he was yelling, he could hear it in his chest, but there was nothing he could do, rage and fear boiled through him, burning, thrashing inside of him. Dragons awoke within him, roused by his panic.

He tried to close the gap between them, “Get the fuck away from him, fucking  _now_!” He was drawn up to his full height like a frightened beast, but the man caught him by the back of his collar and yanked him back. She picked his fingers from her arm and the man threw him across the room with unnecessary force. As he flew past he heard McCree croak his name.

He landed on the floor by the door with a clatter and slam. He felt it in his spine, but not enough to care. He could have been shot on the spot and he wouldn’t have cared. Momentum and panic carried him forward, anger, wrath, he felt it all down his right side, dragons rolling through him like a wildfire, wriggling under his skin, desperate to get out. To fight.

“I will not let this happen! You will pay for this!” He scrambled upwards, roaring as though there was any intervention that would count. The man took him by the collar, silent, mouth twisting with awful words, jerking him upwards till he was on the tips of his toes, held up to his eyes.

“Just leave it,” he snarled, eyes narrowed, nostrils flaring. Hanzo just stared at him. “Just fucking leave it.”

The man threw him out the door they’d come through, and it slammed at his feet loud enough to ring in his ears. He spent a long time shaking on the floor.

…

Genji reached for him but Hanzo caught his wrist.

He only ever reached for him with his human hand, Hanzo’s nails dug into honest flesh. They’d been on speaking terms for a few months now, but he’d never let Genji see him like this, dishevelled, drunk on sleep. Not since they were children. He threw the wrist away and rolled to the other side of the bed. The room he’d been put in was cold and empty, four blank walls and scratchy sheets, smelling like detergent and twenty years’ worth of ammunition. He’d buried himself in it.

Genji rolled him back over and Hanzo opened one eye. Sunlight blared though the window like music from a stereo, and Genji’s eyes were tired as they loomed above him. His scarred cheeks were shadowed by dark circles, and his shoulders were lowered. He wasn’t here to fight. There was nothing in him that roared, no punishment. He never came at him with punishment, but Hanzo waited for it. Waited for it from Genji like he’d waited for it from their father, like the man had given him the night before. He was always waiting for the day that all his mistakes would come at him, like shrapnel from a time capsule.

Hanzo had no idea how he managed it. Hanzo had taken a limb from someone he called friend and he mustered no rage, provided no catharsis.

“Come eat lunch with me.” Dark hair poked through metal plates, and his face was the same as it had always been, more battered, marred, but always his. Standing there in the sunlight, gleaming, Hanzo’s eyes still blurred with sleep, he could have sworn that they were still kids. That they were still as young as the day.

“No.”

“Come sit on the rocks with me.” Hanzo turned back over, facing the wall. He’d slept on top of the sheets, curled up in his clothes, hungover on existence. “I’ll tell you how the surgery went.”

They ended up down at the beach, sitting on the rocks like Genji had said they would. He looked strange there, like he might rust, like the salt spray might corrode him. He presented Hanzo with a small, engraved hip flask, and a packet of cigarettes, the same type that McCree had had in his pocket when they’d first met.

“Is this what you call lunch?”

“Brother, I don’t eat. I don’t call anything lunch.”

Hanzo didn’t look at him, tucking the cigarettes into his shirt, because he had no lighter to light them with. He was full to the brim with bitter little thoughts, growling to everything in sight, heart heavy, but he sipped from the flask he’d been given, grateful for any sort of burn. He could just see the initials on the bottom left corner of the flask when he drank from it. JM. Jesse McCree.

“Why have you given me these things?”

“It’s what Jesse had in his locker when he left. Gabe gave me the combination so that I could get the photos of his sisters.” Genji’s human hand fiddled with his robotic arm, picking at the metal, as though his fleshy self was under there somewhere. Hanzo watched him like an anguished anthropologist, trying to find the reasons for things, trying to figure out how it had all gone so wrong.

“Where are they?”

“Safehouse a nation over, in the middle of nowhere.”

The sea here was beautiful, the soft-hearted breakers, rolling up the thin stretch of sand at the foot of the cliffs. Huge boats steamed in the distance, breaking up the horizon, animating life so he could see it. His boot laces were untied, his clothes sweaty and wrinkled, and his whole body heaved with exhaustion. It had been days since anyone had tried to shoot him, but it still felt like they were just around the corner, like he was only just ahead of them.

“How is he?”

“He’ll live.” They stared out to sea together, like the old men they were. “His arm was gone long before you arrived, but his life is secure now.” Genji held his human hand up to the sky as if to examine it, as if to see what McCree had lost, as if he hadn’t lost so much himself. “Sometimes, that is all we can ask for.”

Hanzo nodded and drank the rest of McCree’s whiskey. He wiped his upper lip and sighed into the wind.

“Sometimes it is.”

…

Angela and Gabe stood over him, either side of the bed, and all his cells felt gravity like his body was made of cement and mud. He felt his tongue in the back of his throat, his mouth dry, and there was nothing clear, the world swam around him, falling dizzily in and out of focus. He blinked slowly. They were talking but he couldn’t make out the words, everything familiar, but far away, like he was looking up at them from the bottom of a deep, dark hole, the sounds of their voices taking decades to reach him. Deep in the warm, brown earth.

He wanted to reach out to them, wanted them to know he was there, that everything was okay. All that came out of him was a gurgle. He tried to reach for Gabe’s arm, but nothing happened, and he gurgled louder, straining to communicate.

They looked down at him like he’d been raised from the dead.

He tried to form words, but they fell out of him like a cough, trying to explain that everything was fine, that he was okay. His vision blurred, and their hands were on him in an instant, Gabe reaching him first, taking him by the scruff of his throat. Before he could fathom what was happening a Styrofoam cup full of ice water was being pressed to his lips and his mouth became blissfully cold. His eyes fluttered shut, Gabe’s hand on his neck keeping him from choking and Angela’s hand on his shoulder, her sweet voice telling him sweet things.

“It’s okay,” someone from far above him said. “It’s okay.” It sounded like Gabe, it could have been Angela. Someone was tucking his hair behind his ear; someone’s hands were rubbing circles in to his jaw.

“Arm… gone?”

A hand stroked his forehead.

“Yes, Jesse. Your arm is gone.”

…

Gabe was waiting for him when he woke up, sitting in the chair by the bed, reading a book. McCree couldn’t count the times that he’d been in that chair, the times he’d spent waiting for someone to wake up, welcome them back to the land of the living. He’d done it for Gabe, done it for Genji, and they’d done it for him. Sitting in that chair was a declaration to an indifferent universe, sitting in that chair meant sitting for hours, till kingdom come, hell or high water. Gabe had been sitting in that chair since McCree was nineteen.

“G’morning,” he croaked. Things were coming back to him now, sensation was returning. He’d dreamt, he’d dreamt that he was floating in a deep, deep bath. He’d dreamt that all he’d been able to see was the sun shining down to him in the deep, warm water. He’d dreamt that he’d longed for the ocean, longed for water with salt in it, that the seaweed had loved him, that the seaweed was his sisters, his family. But he wasn’t in the ocean, he was in a deep bath where the sun hadn’t been able to reach him. He had swum towards the surface for hours, arms moving sluggishly, kicking weakly, reaching for the light. And when he’d made it, when he’d surfaced, there was Gabe, sitting in the chair, waiting for him. And he was awake, and alive, sluggishness still in him. Gabe gazed steadily, eyes narrowing.

“G’morning,  _pendejo_ ,” he murmured.

McCree tried to sit up, tried to push down on the mattress, palms to the bed. Palm to the bed. His eyes widened, and Gabe had to rush upwards to keep him from toppling off the bed, off balance, like wet cardboard. He could hardly feel the pressure of the hand on his shoulder, he could hardly feel anything, his head swirling. Gabe positioned him back onto the bed, more pillows, propped him up like a paper doll in rain.

“What happened?” He heard the confusion in his own voice but couldn’t seem to get his bearings in his own body. Bits of him kept going numb and coming back and disappearing again.

“ _Mijo_ , we had to amputate,” he was solemn, looking down at his hands, eyebrows pressed together “I’m sorry, kid, we took your arm.” His eyes were low, dark faced, and he looked at McCree like he was a dog in a thunderstorm. Like there was no way he could explain what was happening, no way he could make this easier. McCree blinked at him, hardly managing to grasp the words, not really knowing what they meant.

Gabe gestured towards his arm, to where his arm had been, and McCree looked down. His stomach lurched upwards and he should have had an elbow, his elbow should have extended downwards over flesh. There should have been  _bones_. Where the fuck were his fucking _bones_? There was no comprehension, the thunder rolled and bits of him howled. Parts of him insisted that the body he saw couldn’t be his. It couldn’t be his. And if it was, how would he know, how could he identify something he had  _lost?_

When he was seven he’d broken his wrist, dived off the porch at the wrong angle; he’d been chasing the dog, he’d wailed. Alisa had driven him to the hospital in their mother’s truck, not once going the speed limit. Elena had sat in the back seat with him while he writhed and screamed, cooed to him, stroked his hair. The two of them had kissed his forehead before he went into surgery, hugged him as he sat on the bed with wheels. He didn’t remember knowing what was going on, but he’d know later that they’d poured their savings into a three second mistake, poured their savings into that arm. Since then he’d always been able to crack the joint loud enough to make kids laugh.

But there was no evidence of that now. Because his arm was just gone, his hand, his fingers, the pins they’d put in his wrist, it was all just  _gone._

Tears welled in his eyes, his face twisted, and a small gasp, almost a sob he failed to smother, came out of him. He clamped his hand over his mouth and hiccupped. Tears reached his fingers before he could stop them, and Gabe’s body covered his, risen from where he’d been sitting. Arms enveloped him like he was still some scrawny nineteen-year-old, struggling to breathe on the side of the road, clutching the revolver his grandma had given him. Trying to figure out how everyone had died.

And Gabe had given him a pair of gloves a couple Christmases back, nice ones, Italian leather. He kept them in the top draw of his desk, wore them with his one good suit for funerals and marriages. What would he do with the other one? He would be all lopsided. Gabe rubbed his back with a flat palm, fingers in his hair, holding him, holding his distress.

“It’s going to be alright,  _mijo_ ,” he whispered, because he was strong, and McCree wasn’t. And sobs wracked his body, shaking, half stupefied and half terrified, like the kid Gabe reminded him he was, coughing, hiccupping, unable to stop.

Gabe let him weep, Gabe let him begin the grieving process sobbing.

…

She wasn’t tall, but Genji had straightened the moment she’d entered the room like she so supremely outranked him he had no business even being in her presence.

“Genji,” she acknowledged him with a flick of her wrist, and his shoulders slackened, his chin lowered. His eyes trailed down to his feet, and she dismissed him with a nod of the head. He scuttled out the door with a quick glance Hanzo’s way and the more time he spent with his brother the more he resembled the child he had been.

Finally, her eyes settled on him, sitting on the bed, ankles crossed, shoulders hunched. She made him think about his posture, but he refused to move.

“You must be the other Shimada.” She spoke with a slight accent, but he couldn’t place it. They always referred to Genji as Genji, but he was Shimada. They made it clear that this was hardly an acquaintanceship. He had returned their bear broken, and he would pay for it with every cutting gaze. He had been expecting the other woman, Ziegler. He’d had his apology all ready and everything, known the precise words he would have used. It wasn’t her fault, he could see that now. She had done what she’d had to do to keep him alive. And he knew that the feeling in the pit of his stomach would be so much worse if McCree had died.

He would have removed McCree’s arm with a corkscrew in the bathroom of their hotel room if that was what it had taken to keep him alive.

“Yes, ma’am.”

She raised her jaw just a fraction and observed him at a distance like he was a sculpture crafted from all his actions. He could feel her looking over his whole life like it was tattooed on his chest, she saw it all. All he could do was raise his shoulders to his ears and stare at the floor. After a few moments, her hand entered his view of the linoleum, small and wrinkled, but precisely offered. It was a small gift, a small opportunity to introduce himself, take over the narrative. He hesitated, feeling his instincts in his fingers, and took it. Her silver hair was braided over her shoulder, and her face softened into a smile when he met her eye. Eye singular.

“Captain Ana Amari, at your service.”

And something in him clicked, some old habit sprung to life. This was a game he could play.

He hopped from the bed, his bare feet hitting the cool floor. He let go of her hand, put his arms to his sides, and bowed like he had been doing since he was tall enough to do so.

“Shimada Hanzo, at yours.”

When he straightened she was looking at him with mild bemusement, clip board tucked into her arm, pen behind her ear, secured by the strap of her eyepatch.

“Well, you’re certainly politer than your brother,” she said, patting the place where he had been sitting. “Come. Sit. Let me look over you.” He did as she told him to and felt as Genji did. This woman could have commanded him to learn to fire arrows with his toes and he would have done it. She had power over the air that moved around her, she lived like there were none who could defy her.

She took his blood pressure in silence, took his temperature, measured the length of his arms, listened to his heart as he breathed in and out.

“I was expecting the doctor I met last night,” he admitted as she measured his height against the doorframe. She hardly flinched at him speaking, eyes unmoving as she marked the frame with a pencil. There was nothing he could say that would faze her.

“She and Gabriel are caring for Jesse, he is being a baby.”

If she felt any emotion she showed none, writing the information gathered on her clipboard. He stepped away from the door and rubbed at his elbows. She made him feel very young, as if he was but a child to her, too young to properly understand grown up goings on.

“But he is alright?”

Genji had assured him that the worst had passed, that from here on in there was only recovery to be had.

“He’ll come to terms with it,” she said, going through her notes. Hanzo stared at his own hands, and guilt filled him. He knew little, but McCree was a good man, he was kind, he spoke gently. He reached out, blindly, thoughtlessly, offering even him passage, security, hope. They hardly knew each other, but when the crows had come for him, McCree had come for him too. He’d made sure that he was safe, had apologised in that alleyway when he hadn’t known what to do. As though it was his failure. And Hanzo had taken his arm. He had _taken_ his arm. 

When he looked back up she was looking at him, clipboard limp, eyes serious. She could see all the turmoil in him, he was as transparent as a rock pool in front of her. She frowned at him, eyebrows furrowed.

“We all have to learn to live without things, Shimada,” she said, “and he’s had to learn to live without things far more vital than this.” She smiled out the window, out to the cliffs. “But you should go see him, if you are concerned. He has asked after you.”

He was almost pleased, but mostly horrified.

…

He loitered around after the lights in the med bay had been turned off for the evening, waited until that thunderstorm of a man came out the door. He hid in the hollow of a doorway and watched him stomp down the hall with his hands in his pockets, dog tags shining on the back of his neck. The man wouldn’t want him here, wouldn’t want him creeping down the corridor, slipping into the bear’s hospital room, but he needed to make sure he was still alive. That he was still breathing, that he was recovering like they promised him he would.

Hanzo slunk in, door closed carefully behind him, and McCree slept on a fresh bed, the lamp spilling orange light over his features. His hair was unbrushed and his arm was gone; his remaining wrist was hooked up to a drip, feeding him fluids and morphine. Machines beeped quietly.

He looked no different here than he had in their hotel room. His face was still honest, his mouth slightly open, his scruff no less scruffy. Hanzo’s jacket was thrown over a nearby chair, freshly washed. His revolver sat on the bedside table, pearl handle and all. His hat was hooked over the post of the bed, his holster with it. All of his things were gathered around him as if to remind him who he was, remind him of the life he had lived, of all that was to come.

As gently as he could, Hanzo placed the flask next to the revolver, angled it so that he would see it when he woke up. He put the cigarettes in the inside pocket of his own jacket and the bear wouldn’t know that it was him, but he wanted to give. He couldn’t say why. He touched McCree’s brow, and found it cooler than before; he was healing, he would recover. And Hanzo was heartened by that, he really was. But McCree would never get back, never be as whole as he’d been, and he couldn’t help the sadness that bloomed in his chest, alone enough to feel it, the mourning deep in his bones, so incredibly sorry. It was a kind of apology, being here.

He brushed McCree’s hair away from his eyes, sighing, rubbing his thumb over his eyebrow, and receded back into the night. Nobody needed to know he’d been there at all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hanzo in chapter one: Unhinged, uncool, peasant. UGH.   
> Hanzo in chapter three: I have only had Jesse McCree for three days, but if anything happened to him, I would kill everyone in this room and then myself. 
> 
> Yeah, so I am completely here for McCree and Reyes' relationship. Like it's super duper, 'this is my work son, Jesse, I love him, and my work son's sTUPID FUCKIN BOYFRIEnd, Handsoap.'


	4. Old Fashioned Manners

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bro.

McCree sat on a bench in front of the sunrise, Hanzo’s jacket back over his shoulders, smoke rising around his head. He was bathed in pink light, the shadows of the clouds on his face. He looked like a painting, sitting there, distant and serene, gazing out over the ocean.

Hanzo’s hand hit the back of the bench before he knew what he was doing, and McCree was looking up at him, cigarette in his fingers, the light making his irises glow. He was soft in the sunshine, dressed in an unbuttoned plaid shirt and sweats, his left sleeve tucked into his breast pocket, and his shoulders slack. McCree smiled up at him, uncomplicated, settled, a vision of peace. Like there could have been hurricanes tearing houses from their foundations and he would have hardly felt the breeze.

“G’mornin’, gorgeous,” he said. Gorgeous was a new one, and he didn’t smile, but sometimes, when McCree spoke to him, he could feel the decades slipping from his shoulders. And he was young again, young and harmless, young and unburdened. Easily flattered by a handsome man in the sunshine.

“Good morning, McCree,” he let no warmth into his voice, gave nothing away, but sat down beside him, hoping that McCree wouldn’t know him well enough to understand the lengths he’d gone to distance himself from all others. Except him. When it was McCree Hanzo found himself on the bench before he’d even had time to consider going back to his room, before he had the time to think about the things he was suddenly willing to sacrifice, his secure isolation thrown under the bus, McCree smiling at him before he could say no.

They stared out at the ocean together, flat and bright with the dawn, and when McCree offered him his cigarette, he took it. They passed it back and forth in silence, ash tapped onto the grass trod into dirt.

“Thanks for giving the flask back,” McCree’s voice was quiet, muttered into the filter of his dying cigarette, the corners of his mouth drawn upwards, and his cheery eyes pointed forward. Hanzo let his eyes flicker towards him for only a half second before he snatched them back, darting back to safer territory. McCree volunteered an unlit cigarette and when Hanzo put it to his lips he volunteered a light. Hanzo did not look at him.

It had been days since he’d seen McCree outside of the medbay, visiting him each night when he could get away from his brother. It was a kind of haunting, the only kind of care he was capable of, to watch over him, making sure that no more harm came to him. But last night McCree hadn’t been there, his bed made up, his things cleared away, no evidence left of him. It had gutted him, but he wouldn’t admit it.

He watched the cigarette burn between his fingers, the same ones that McCree always had, eyebrows together, and did not look up.

“How did you know it was me?”

“Told Genji to give ‘em to ya.” McCree’s voice was gentle.

“He did not mention that.” Hanzo shoved the cigarette away from him, held out towards McCree, and refused to watch him take it.

“Good,” McCree chuckled under his breath, “I told ‘im not to,” And Hanzo had no idea how he was so light, how he could laugh so easily, how his eyes were still so clear and calm. Hanzo had spent so much time imagining the pain he’d been through, imagining how much had been taken. He’d lost a limb, his body had changed forever, he would never get back to the way he had been, but he laughed and watched the sunrise, offered him things. As though it was simple. “I didn’t think you’d take ‘em if you knew.”

Hanzo took a risk to look at him, and he shone.

His smile was lopsided, his hair stuck up at odd angles and his nose crooked. But he was beautiful, in his own way. He was a machine built to last, embracing the blows, the bullets. He met the sunrise like an old friend, and offered him things, and opened his arms to every stray impact, like it was nothing. Like it was nothing to take a bullet for a stranger in a restaurant, to have his arm taken from him, just another scar.

Sometimes Hanzo felt like he could be blown over by a stiff wind, fragile and frail.

“Why would you do that?” Why had he bothered to ask after him while he lay in a hospital bed? When had he decided Hanzo was worth any of his generosity? How could he be so blasé? So calm? So much taken from him and Hanzo wanted him to be  _angrier_  about it, wanted him to care, scream, something honest, anything honest. But he didn’t.

Hanzo stared at the side of his face, but McCree never looked at him, his smile failing to maintain itself, slipping away. And his shoulders went lower, sagging. He made himself defenceless, laid down his countermeasures for him, rubbing at his face, his cigarette held away from his hair with his tired eyes.

“I knew they were gonna amputate, that I’d lose it,” he said, and suddenly all the jokes were gone, he was empty of pet names, “I could feel it. I didn’t know how to tell ya. I knew that I wasn’t going to be there to get you comfortable or nothing. So, I figured I would make a few arrangements.” He rubbed at his growing beard, and there was no part of him that was angry, no part of him that snarled, he was just sad. And the sadness on his face was an old one, one that was comfortable and familiar on his features. He met McCree’s eyes, and watched him smile, slow and understanding. “Sorry, darlin’, I just couldn’t think what else to do.”

Hanzo shook his head at him.

“I do not see how that was ever important.”

McCree ran his fingers through his hair, nails raked over his skin, smoothing down only one side of his hair, the other left messy and rough. He shrugged.

“I got old fashioned manners, darlin’. I bought you here, my job to get ya comfortable, treat ya like a guest and all that.” He laughed, but it was an exhausted sound, more like an exhale than a chuckle.

Hanzo examined his fingernails, held his hand out to the sun like Genji had done. He took any excuse not to meet McCree’s eyes

“You still could,” he said slowly. “Show me around, perhaps.”

“I’d like that, sweetheart. I really would.”

…

Hanzo stood in the shade where the man and Ziegler had waited for them, under unlit floodlights, trying to look desolate and unapproachable. And sometimes he could manage it, set his shoulders just so, eyes down, features perfectly still, all drawn together like he was made of metal, like he could put firm distance between himself and everything around him. It was as close to meditation as he got, trying to see how long he could manage it before he let something human through.  

Their ship was still standing on the runway, gleaming in the sunshine and he gazed steadily at it. Eyes scraping over the landscape, the grass that poked from the cracks in the concrete at the ship’s feet, the summer alive and beating against the air even in the most concrete laden parts of the Watchpoint. At the farthest end of the runway he could just see creeping reeds enveloping the pavers, weeds finding any survivable crevice and surviving there, diligent and determined to live. It was as if the land was being taken back. Hanzo could almost see how it would progress, how in a few years, without maintenance, everything would be retaken and reclaimed. The ship would grow ivy and support communities of birds and spiders. Tree roots would disrupt the stone, destined to bloom into green, flourish with the summer.

The step of McCree’s boots disturbed him, and he looked up, spell broken.

McCree stride was comfortable, but he leaned to his left slightly, as if trying to redistribute his weight. His beard was neater since they’d last seen each other, his hair combed and tucked behind his ears. His button down was clean and fresh, his hat sitting straight on his head. He removed it politely as he entered the shade where Hanzo stood, held it in his hand as he approached, head ducked as if he knew he was too tall.

“Howdy,” he said, and Hanzo realised that if the word had come from anyone else he would have taken it for a joke. “You ready to take a walk?” He still had Hanzo’s jacket around his shoulders like he’d forgotten that it hadn’t been his to begin with. He narrowed his eyes.

“You have two hours.”

McCree smiled and when he offered his arm, Hanzo took it, trying to think of it as nothing. He tried to pretend that he could still be distant and arch even standing next to someone as open and honest as McCree.

…

“Gabe taught me how to play basketball here,” McCree explained as they stood in the mouth of the courtyard at the centre of the training building. “When I was twenty, he threw the ball at me so hard it gave me a concussion.” Hanzo took the information in, eyes trailing from wall to wall, over abandoned exercise equipment, the dandelions growing from between the bricks, the leaves of a tree reaching for the light.

“That explains so much.”

McCree’s laugh was rich and smooth above him and pleasure bloomed in his belly, self-satisfaction unfurling at the sound.

They hadn’t walked far, but each building was a new world, strung together, tall and gleaming. The Watchpoint was built like a hive, buildings linked by bridges and pathways, separated by disused roads, enormous and sprawling. They passed under the shade of ships, stood in the lighted squares of windows high on warehouse walls. They stomped around buildings, using forgotten paths over raggedy grass and displaced concrete. Original purposes forgotten. Advanced aircrafts littered the ground, out of place among the decaying buildings. McCree told him the stories of their names, who worked there, why some stood empty, why some bustled with faceless movement. He spoke incessantly, a constant thrum of information, of sound against his side.

From the mouth of the courtyard he watched a bird returning to the tree at its centre and watched the corners of McCree’s mouth curl upwards at the sight.

“Come on, I wanna show you something,” McCree tugged them onwards, stepping down from the concrete walkway to the crunch of dry grass and dirt. Hanzo allowed himself to be led, as though he was a maiden in a garden, knowing that if he caught the shine of his brother’s body for even an instant he was going to toss McCree like the crash test dummy he was behind the nearest wall and flee. For the time being though, he allowed himself to enjoy this, let himself relish in the warmth at his side, knowing that nothing good came for free, and there was only so much he could run up his tab. All things ended.

They crossed the courtyard, ignoring the marked walkway and stomping over the concrete and grass, from one doorway to another.

From the inside, the training building gleamed. It was like walking into a new decade. Everything was fresh and updated and frequented. The deeper they walked into it the more disorganised it became. They passed gyms, shooting ranges, and dojos, and they paused to inspect none of them. McCree walked them down a long hallway, passing rooms and rooms, till they reached the end and stepped from the air-conditioned air to the bright and startling sunshine. The heat hummed around them, alive with summer activity.

They had reached the edge of the Watchpoint, had walked its entire length. From here to the fence there was only the grass, long and flowing, waving in the sea breeze. An old shed stood not too far away, wildflowers growing around its foundations.

“You wished to show me a shed in a field?”

He never meant to sound as callous as he did, sometimes it just came out of him. McCree chuckled as if he didn’t hear.

“Naw, sweetheart. It’s what’s in the shed that counts.”

…

Hanzo drew the bow string back, testing the tension, he bounced it in his hand. He’d chosen the long bow made from carved and polished timber, picked it off the rack and held it carefully. He considered its weight, eyebrows together, frown on his face, like a mechanic examining the engine of a car. Genji had told him that Hanzo was an archer long before they’d met, but he held the bow now like he examined his fingernails, like he arranged his own shoulders, moved his hands. He held it like as if it was an extension of his body, as much a part of him as he was of it. 

McCree stood beside the door they’d come through, bugs buzzing at his boots, salt on the breeze and heat on his face. He watched Hanzo ready himself to fire, quiver across his shoulders, bow in his hand, holding the arrow like it was a delicate thing, hung from two fingers like a cigarette. He considered the target McCree had wheeled out for him, nocked the arrow and stood like an artwork. Every time he moved it was like he’d been built for it, like someone had sat down and designed a body to do exactly this and do it perfectly.

Hanzo’s shirt was wet with sweat, fabric sticking to his shoulders as he pulled the string back, McCree watching his muscles shift, muscles developed specifically for this purpose. He could see his tattoo moving, sleeve rolled up to his elbow, and knew that this was how it was meant to be seen, meant to be seen keeping a bow steady, ready for the release. Genji’s voice echoed in his head,  _there are dragons in us._  And dragons there were.

Hanzo released the string and McCree watched the arrow fly, hat clutched in his hand, mouth agape. His eyes tried followed it but couldn’t keep up, it shimmered in the light, its aluminium spine glinting like a strike of lightening. The sound of the arrow hitting its mark reached him before his eyes caught up with it, sticking dead centre out of the target.

“Holy fuck,” he whispered, eyes darting back to Hanzo, watching him rock back on his heels. He looked almost pleased with himself, a quiet satisfaction on his shoulders. Before a second had passed he was nocking another arrow, drawing back the string, and firing. It landed an inch below, the one that followed an inch above. Like a kid, or a cat, he played.

…

Hanzo loomed above him, blocking out the sun, bow in his hand, eyebrow raised. McCree looked up at him, phone pressed into his chest.

“It’s your brother, Angela’s mad at me,” he whispered.

“Why?”

“I’m meant to be on bedrest.”

Hanzo had a very particular expression on his face McCree couldn’t decipher. In the right light it might have amused, but in another it might have been annoyed. McCree grinned at him and returned the phone to his ear.

“Are you still there?” Genji’s voice came through the phone, but his eyes were still on Hanzo, like his eyes had been on Hanzo for almost an hour now. 

He could feel fatigue setting in, just walking from building to building had left him drained, left him sitting in the one patch of shade he could find, dreading the moment when someone would ask him to get up. It was like every now and then his body had to remember it, like he had to go through the realisation that it was gone over and over again just to feel it sinking in. Every morning he woke up with the blissful certainty that he was whole, reaching for things with an arm that wasn’t there, fingers gone. Every morning his heart plummeted, every morning he vowed that tomorrow he’d remember. He’d write himself a note, paint it on his ceiling.

_YOUR ARM IS GONE_

Just so he wouldn’t have to go through the horror of finding out all over again.

“Yeah, nah, I’m here. Hanzo says hi.”

Hanzo made a face that seemed to compel him to take that back. McCree smiled at him, neck craned so that he could see him from under the brim of his hat. Hanzo sneered steadily back, unshakable. He could have been pristine, could have had a body unmarked and completely whole, and Hanzo wouldn’t have been all that impressed. It filled him with relief. Even if he was back to being tired, back to business with wobbling legs, his head uncertain on his neck and Hanzo viewing him with little to no indulgence.

It was strangely comforting, something almost charismatic about him. There was nothing he wouldn’t tell him, no insult he wasn’t willing to sling. His hard mouth was always set in a thin, straight line, but his eyebrows betrayed him. McCree liked to think he was fond of him.

“He said nothing, and you know it,” Genji’s voice was firm, “but if he is there, give him the phone.”

McCree did as he was told, holding the phone out to Hanzo, smiling at the places where the sun had coloured his cheeks.

He watched the conversation that followed with curiosity, as Hanzo put his hand on his hip and proceeded to have a heated argument in Japanese.

He remembered seeing him at the restaurant for the first time, peering through the window of the kitchen door, having paid an ankle biter for his uniform. Hanzo had been looking over the wine list like a man on a mission, and he’d taken his scowl for annoyance, for scorn. He remembered thinking that he was like a porcelain doll, like he was polished china, his features bright and skin like the moon, hair dark like the night.

He was transfixing, even with a frown on his face. McCree found himself transfixed.

“Cowboy,” Hanzo addressed him, eyes narrowed. It could have been a jibe, but McCree chose to believe it was an honest observation. “The doctor wants to know how you feel.” Hanzo squinted down at him and he moved his hat about on his head like he needed to think about it.

“Been worse, darlin’. Probably just over estimated my stamina a touch is all.”

Hanzo looked him up and down, mouth set in a permanent sneer.

“Can you walk?”

“With your help, I could do anything, sugar.”

Hanzo scowled at him.

…

Genji and the doctor were waiting for them at the door of the med bay. It hadn’t been a long walk, but they’d needed to stop often. Hanzo had no idea how he hadn’t caught on earlier. He had been so distracted by the feeling of a bow in his hands again, the arrow in his fingers, his eye meeting the target like a conversation. It was a gift, a gift that McCree had given him, had known he would enjoy. But he should have noticed, should have known, he’d gotten so wrapped up in himself, in knowing McCree’s eyes were on him, that he was impressed.

Hanzo cursed himself, ranting inside his own head.

Deja vu struck him as he once again delivered the bear back to his people in at least slightly worse condition than when he’d left them, arm back over his shoulders, hand back clutching his waist. They hobbled across the runway, watched by his brother and the doctor like they were a sideshow of their own design. The urge struck him to leave McCree at least a hundred feet away like a hostage and demand his bags. He could steal one of their vehicles, forge false papers on the way, disappear into the night. Instead he stumbled on, tugging the bear along with him.

McCree laughed at seemingly nothing, and they stumbled onwards like a poorly designed wagon of limbs. They met the pair at the door, the doctor’s hands curled around the handles of an elderly wheelchair. The two of them had an evil glint in their eyes, Genji’s arms across his chest, shoulders set like his self-satisfaction weighed on him. He looked like when they were children and he would tell their nanny whatever Hanzo had told him not to. Hanzo frowned at them.

“I swear to god, I am not gettin’ in that chair,” McCree dug in his heels, weak as they were, to stop them at a few feet from the door. Hanzo watched the doctor smile, unflinching in the face of McCree’s disobedience. She gestured downwards.

“This was agreement we made, Jesse. I told you to stay in bed.” Her smile grew wider, and Genji’s shoulders more satisfied. “Not to mention that you can hardly walk.”

“I never agreed to shit,” McCree writhed in his arms as his brothers advanced on them, arms outstretched. Hanzo even took a cautionary step back but let Genji take him with little protest. And he was going to have to stop holding onto McCree just to have him taken off him. It wasn’t good for his soul.

He watched Genji dump his friend into the chair with little aplomb, and it reminded him of how he had dumped McCree in the bathtub of their hotel room. He was all legs, all shoulders, Hanzo could almost see the lanky teenager he must have been.

And they were painfully comfortable, McCree looking up at him, wrist trapped in his hand, eyes sparkling.

“I told you she’d find out,” Genji laughed at him, childlike delight coming out of all the pores he had left.

“She didn’t, you ratted me out, ya little snitch,” McCree hissed at him, wrist straining in Genji metal hand, residual limb moving as though the rest of his arm was still there, waving around, just invisible. Hanzo watched McCree’s lips twitch, fighting to keep from smiling. He was so quick to grin, even mocked relentlessly, his instinct was to join in the fun. He wanted to participate. Hanzo watched him laugh, leg hanging over the armrest, shoulders back, brawling. And he couldn’t tell if what he felt was jealousy or relief, but something tight was balled in his stomach and he couldn’t shake it.

“Shimada,” the doctor drew him out of his mindless observation, gesturing towards the handles of the wheelchair, “since you got him this far, why don’t you do the honours?”

McCree’s eyes were on his in an instant, mouth paused mid-jeer, circles under his eyes, but his expression light. Hanzo watched motionless as McCree’s hand stopped batting around Genji’s head, and pointed at him, his mouth moving, flashing his canines. The corners of his mouth still ticking upwards; a joking, joyful glint in his eyes.

“Don’t be complicit in this Hanzo, don’t do it,” McCree snarled, but not the way he did when he meant it. The first time they’d met, he’d called him Shimada, like the others did. But his own name, the name that belonged only to him, rang in his ears and McCree was giving him a script, something to play along to. He was inviting him to participate in the joke.

McCree invited him into many things, invited him to be recrafted, reborn.

…

She walked briskly down the corridor, but he was certain she didn’t know she was being pursued. He’d spent decades perfecting the way he walked down corridors. His feet made no sound, but when he called out, she turned like she’d known he was there, jogging after her.

He stood a few feet from her for what he had to say, and she blinked at him like he was something small and puzzling. The medical professionals in this place had a look in their eye, something they must have seen, something they were trying to do. They had purpose, and he didn’t, and they could see it.

“Shimada?” Her eyebrows were raised, and not knowing what else to do, he bowed. She’d made no mention of the night they’d met, but it sat with him wrong that he should leave it undisturbed.

“Doctor Ziegler,” he pronounced her name perfectly; he’d asked Genji and practiced. “I would like to apologise for my behaviour a few nights ago. I should not have touched you or raised my voice, and for that I apologise.” He stared at the floor as he spoke before rising and trying to summon a respectful expression. When he looked back at her face there was a smile on her lips, clipboard clutched to her chest, lab coat like clouds around her knees.

“You are politer than your brother, aren’t you?” she laughed softly at him and he felt a flush rise in his throat. But he pressed it down and said nothing. He figured if he stayed silent long enough, she might forgive him. Instead she walked up and placed her hand on his arm. “We were all afraid that night,” she said, her eyes settled, her smile calm. “No one holds that against you. You were only trying to protect him.”

He stepped out of her touch, his ears burning, eyes cast aside.

“I appreciate your consideration.”

She tucked her hand back around her clipboard, leaning forward on her toes even though he couldn’t have been more than a few inches taller than her.

“It’s good that you’re here for this time,” the smile turned determined, determined that he had to hear this. “I know this isn’t what you wanted, but we’re all glad you’re here. Really. For one reason or another, you’re making this easier.”

He could have sunk into the ground.

…

He watched Hanzo’s hair wavering in the early morning breeze, the air cold just before the sunrise, in the low light his pale skin stood out. His shoulders were still, his hair tied with a ribbon the colour of sunflowers. And his eyes searched the ocean, as if digging for the morning, his sloping nose, sculpted cheekbones, illuminated in the pre-dawn light.

He was so pretty. So perfect.

Genji hadn’t told him that he was pretty, hadn’t prepared him. Sure, McCree had known his face, had seen it in photos, old and new, family and surveillance, but it was different when he was sitting right there. Different when he was lit up by the sky, poised and put together, against the ocean and the very last of the stars. And if he reached out he might have tangled his fingers into the ribbon, it looked so soft. Hanzo looked soft, sitting there, on his bench, glowing.

But McCree kept his hand to himself.

He coughed into his fist and Hanzo jumped, shoulders tensing and eyes on him, eyes like coal pits, drawing him in like they affected gravity, suddenly fierce, suddenly back to pulling out his spleen for the slightest infraction.

He swallowed thickly.

“Uh, g’mornin’,” he mumbled, trying not to look directly at him, trying to make himself small. As though if he just made himself as non-threatening as possible, Hanzo might stay. He watched Hanzo’s thumb moving over the wooden spine of the bow on his lap. McCree had given him the key to the shed, told him they might as well all belong to him. There was no one else to love them.

Hanzo didn’t smile, but his frown lost a touch of its ferocity, less defensive. He just looked at him, just took him in like there were miles between them, like they were oceans apart, sending smoke signals back and forth.

And McCree couldn’t convince him otherwise.

He just held out the cigarettes, the whole packet, crumpled, half empty, like an unworthy offering. Like an insufficient gift. Hanzo looked between his face and the cigarettes and back again, face blank, like he was trying to figure out if it was a trick. As if McCree was capable of deception, as though he had it in him to betray. He held his nerve, and Hanzo’s fingers lifted from the bow. The cigarettes were taken from him and as if that was an invitation, he sat; gingerly setting himself down, no sudden movements, shoulders in, head lowered, keeping steady.

And he’d never figured that it would come to this, never figured that he might be sitting on his own bench, trying to make himself palatable to Genji’s pretty brother, trying to convince him that he was well-intentioned and mostly harmless.

Hanzo offered him a cigarette from the packet and lit it for him when he pressed it to his lips. He lit one for himself as well and placed the packet between them, as though they had joint custody now, a kind of reciprocation, quiet and laced with plausible deniability. McCree tried his best to think nothing of it, watching Hanzo tap the ash from the end of his cigarette onto the grass.

And suddenly his voice bubbled out of him before he could stop it, always a fatal flaw in someone like him.

“You should stay.” He felt Hanzo’s head whipping over to him, eyes boring into the side of his face, “For a while at least,” he added quickly, “It’ll help with the investigation and stuff.”

There was a long pause, but he felt Hanzo’s intense gaze returning to the ocean, still mirthful, but at least not directed at him. Spleen still intact.

“For a time,” was all he said.

He felt himself relax, felt Hanzo relaxing beside him. The muscles in his back uncoiled and he straightened his neck and it was comfortable having him nearby, his beauty, his statuesque presence.

And together, they watched the sun creep above the horizon, beginning to colour the clouds in silence. And he was glad, glad that this was a sort of friendship. A sort of partnership. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I choose to believe that they're friends now. There I said it, yay friendship.


	5. The Sweet Winner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh, yeah so. Bruh. 
> 
> Fuck I love Ana. Would lay down my life, 10/10, would recommend to a friend. 
> 
> And Hanzo is useless. 
> 
> Word.

Genji was leaning against the wall beside the door, flicking through his phone, expression relaxed. He didn’t look up as they ambled towards him, even though Hanzo knew him well enough to think he might have heard them coming from all the way across the Watchpoint. McCree knew him well enough to peg a pebble from halfway down the corridor with the certainty that he would catch it, mid-air and effortless, hand moving in a blur of movement.

McCree laughed beside him like it was a joke, like Genji was the punchline to all of his set ups. Their relationship was so comfortable and uncomplicated, and he’d never say it out loud, but he envied it. Hanzo spent more than an hour with Genji and he wanted to walk into the ocean, but McCree entered and exited his presence with no forethought or hindsight. They were just friends, it was simple, they enjoyed each other’s company and they didn’t want the other to die. There was nothing more to it than that, and yet Hanzo still couldn’t quite get his head around it.

He watched Genji toss the pebble into the air, observing its weight before he flicked it back to McCree, eyes half lidded, it’s trajectory as straight as a horizon. It hit McCree square in the chest when he didn’t catch it, landing in the groove between the tiles.

“I coulda sworn I was catchin’ that,” he said, eyebrows furrowed, voice quiet and the corners of his mouth turned down. Before he could help himself, Hanzo’s fingers were closing around the pebble, and he was pressing it back into his palm. 

“I’m afraid you did not.”

McCree grinned anxiously at him, and popped the pebble back into his pocket, as though there was a need for later analysis. Hanzo frowned, watching his face as he turned back to Genji, left trying to figure out if he looked older or younger when he was experiencing stress.

When he looked back up, Genji’s eyes were on them, having watched the interaction like they were animals in a zoo, like for a moment there was a thick pane of glass between them. They were a spectator sport and a curveball had just been thrown. And Hanzo had never meant for this to happen.

He had never meant for the alarm bells in his head to stop ringing when McCree was around.

Back in his old life, there was no question of his isolation, no candidates for friendship, no complications. He bought tea, he took jobs, he went to dinner when he could, enjoyed the view from his apartment window. But here, he was unable maintain vigilance, struggled to keep the distance he preferred. Here, the threats melted away as he rationalised them, his armour slipping from his chest, trying desperately to convince himself that he was still in control. That he had plans he’d stick to, that he knew what he was doing, that he could leave whenever he wanted to; that he’d oversee McCree’s recovery, put the matter to rest.

And then he’d be gone.

Gone like he’d been gone a thousand times before, fallen back into anonymous streets. He’d crack his knuckles into a new life and try his best not to think about the few weeks he’d spent in Gibraltar, the mornings spent on McCree’s bench.

But anxiety coiled in his stomach as Genji’s eyes flickered between them and he could feel himself falling into this, the quicksand around his hips. It was hard to tell if he was the runway or the vines, but the longer he stayed the harder it became to imagine disappearing, imagine forgetting, being unfazed and unchanged. 

If this was what being friends with people was like, then he hated it.

Genji knocked on the door, metal knuckles against the wood, and a voice beckoned them in. The door opened into an office, neat and plain, and already brimming with people, some he recognised, some he didn’t. Genji and McCree filed into the room and he followed, as tall as he could make himself. He wanted to kick McCree in the shin so that he would at least be as tall as his closest ally.

He held back and stood at the threshold of the room like he was teetering off a cliff. For a moment the man they called Gabe’s eyes were on him, burning, but Hanzo gave him no response, staring at the back of McCree boots, spine to the wall. Around him there was chatter, Genji closing the door behind them, and his eyes drifting upwards, determined to know his environment but not to make eye contact with another living soul.

His eyes meandered around the office, small as it was, over the frame covered walls, team photos, Christmas parties, weddings, military uniforms, the works. He found his brother’s face in some, the bear’s in others, frozen in time, in the bodies they’d once had. In each one, McCree had both his arms and a grin on his face. He was inaccurate now, standing in front of him in this office, surrounded by the evidence that he had lost something, that he wasn’t the person he’d been in the photos. It filled him with a squirming horror.  

From the corner Dr Ziegler and Captain Amari cross-referenced their clipboards, speaking quietly, pointing to their notes, eyes hardly lifting as the three of them got settled. Leaning on the desk a tall blond man with a blue coat down to his ankles nodded to Genji. Hanzo watched him straighten to shake McCree’s hand, eyes clear, features noble; watched McCree smile at him, soft in their mutual familiarity.

Hanzo damn near growled at the sight.

“I was sorry to hear about your arm, son,” he addressed McCree like they all did, referring to him as if he was very young, as if with his arm he’d stripped the past two decades off his shoulders and he was fifteen again, just some lanky teenager they were taking care of. It didn’t matter the broadness of his shoulders or the weapon at his hip, he was a kid to them. Precious and small.

McCree smiled at him, unchanging.

“It ain’t nothin’, Jack. Coulda happened to anyone.”

Hanzo watched him move, watched his shoulders roll as the blond man directed him to sit in the one chair opposite the desk, Genji hovering by his side. McCree lowered himself into the chair, the muscles in his jaw tightening as he fought away a frown, fighting to keep himself light. He played along dutifully, allowing the blond man to pat him on the shoulder and return to his spot at the desk.

McCree rubbed the back of his ear as if he could feel Hanzo’s gaze there.

Genji glanced back at him, and he returned his stare to the floor.

He listened to the man shuffling papers on his desk, the conversation going on between Genji and the blond man, the other, but no less confusing one going on between the two doctors. McCree, for the first time, stayed quiet. Hanzo watched his feet moving about under his chair, fidgeting slightly. He wondered if he was still thinking about all the things he couldn’t catch anymore, weather he was still turning the pebble over in his pocket.

It gnawed at him to see McCree silent, made even him want to reach out, offer a comfort he couldn’t give. McCree’s mourning weighed heavy on Hanzo’s shoulders, he showed it so little, made such obvious efforts not to think about it, not to notice how changed he was, how much had been taken. But Hanzo could see him dragged back down by a pebble to the chest, a confirmation of a devastating present. And there was nothing he could do but watch, watch him go through this, offering nothing.

Instead he pressed backwards, trying to blend into the wallpaper and no one looked at him. Even when the briefing began his eyes stayed on McCree, watching him sit in the middle of all of them, mostly silent, eyes on the window. About halfway through he began tipping his chair back, boot on the leg of the desk. Hanzo watched silently, waiting for the moment that he would tip backwards too far to recover, ready to leap forward and catch him.

It was strangely comforting to know that someone was paying even less attention than he was.

…

_“Haré los arreglos para tus hermanas hoy. Pero habrá condiciones.”_

The Spanish was spoken low over the desk, the two of them leaning together, participating in a secret conversation, private in a crowded space. And no one but Hanzo paid them any mind, his keen eyes on them while the man they called Morrison rattled on about logistics and specifics, either not noticing or not caring that there was a negotiation taking place below him.

Hanzo watched McCree nod, his one hand on the desk, feet tucked beneath his chair. His shoulders were coiled, Hanzo could see the muscles under his shirt.

_“Por supuesto, jefe. ¿Cuándo puedo irme?”_ His voice was a whisper, eyes pinned forward, body stiff, as if in his mind there was nobody else in the room. The man they called Reyes tapped the table with his finger, hunched, eyes low, holding McCree’s attention.

_“Dale unos días, mijo. Te daré un informe mañana por la mañana.”_

Something in that statement seemed to sate McCree’s urgency, and he sat back, smug smile on his face. Having won, Hanzo presumed.

Almost as if he’d been waiting for the negotiation to be over, Morrison wrapped up his meaningless jabber, clasping his hands together and setting his shoulders. McCree’s eyes rose from Reyes to Morrison, looking pleased with himself and Hanzo narrowed his eyes at the back of his head, suspicious by nature.

“Alrighty, I think that’ll do it for today. If you need any more information talk to Gabe about it because I have other things to do.” And with hardly a second word they were suddenly all readying themselves for departure and he was hauling McCree out of his chair and propelling him towards the door. The sooner McCree got out the door, the sooner he did as well.

They only let him get one foot into the hallway before they stopped him with a clearing of the throat, and a grunt before speaking. When he turned back both sets of eyes were on him, Reyes at his desk, Morrison leaning on it; his arms crossed, smile on his face, expression unyielding. It was as if they’d spent the past forty-five minutes lulling him into a sense of security, knowing that when their attention finally zeroed in on him, he might as well have been hit by a train.

“Actually, Shimada, we’d like a word with you,” Morrison’s eyes were on him. Reyes was silent, looking like a man who knew that he wouldn’t have to hold back much longer, fingers knitted together, elbows to his desk. Hanzo opened his mouth to say he’d rather do literally anything else, but McCree’s hand landed on his shoulder before he could. When he looked up McCree’s eyebrows were knitted together, his shoulders squared, mouth already open to speak.

“What’s this about then?”

Reyes’ eyes clicked to him, going from fearsome to exasperated in a half second flat. He watched as Reyes’ lip curled at McCree, and McCree’s lip curled back.

_“Sólo déjalo, mijo. Esto no te concierne,”_ Reyes hissed.

They used their second language like notes written in invisible ink, like there were things designed to be said only to each other. McCree’s frown deepened, his eyebrows more furrowed, drawn up to his full height. Hanzo felt the grip on his shoulder tighten just a fraction.

_“¿Qué se supone que significa eso?”_ Hanzo heard the tension in his voice.

“It’s just a talk, son, go wait outside,”

And that seemed to do it.

A few off-hand words from Morrison and he was the kid they insisted he was, mouth twisting, more in irritation than anger. Frustration squirming in his expression, annoyed, stripped of his self-satisfaction. He released Hanzo’s shoulder like he was a weapon thrown to the floor in surrender, and resumed his usual size, shoulders rigid. He glowered at Reyes and Reyes glowered back.

And Hanzo understood, understood that he had to be left, that the door had to shut behind McCree. He needed to be left alone in this office, sneering at its occupants like it was his only form of self-defence, if that was what they were asking for. But that didn’t make McCree’s sudden absence any less jarring, it didn’t leave him feeling any less exposed once their eyes returned to him and their acts were resumed.

They saw him with none of the affection, the trust, with which they had viewed McCree, knowing that he could not be made a child by them. They could command McCree, if poorly, but Hanzo held no allegiance to their superiority and he had no track record of good behaviour, and they knew it. There was no evidence that he was good for anything and nothing he could say that would invalidate that. And even if there had been, he wasn’t certain he would have tried.

Reyes gestured to the chair in front of his desk where McCree had been sitting, and Morrison smiled at him.

“Take a seat, Shimada.”

He did as he was told, jaw raised, mouth set firm. He refused to give them the satisfaction of his intimidation, crossing one knee over the other, and viewing each other them in turn, his fingers knitted in his lap, eyes narrowed.

Morrison began when he realised that Hanzo was not going to start whatever conversation they had planned.

“You are aware that Jesse has two sisters, are you not?”

His smile was unflinching, but of all the places Hanzo had expected this to begin, that was not it. He eyed them cautiously.

“I am,” he gave them no further information and Reyes’ eyes never once left him.

“And you are aware that they’re in a safe house in Portugal?”

He narrowed his eyes as he realised what they were trying to do. Watching them watching him back, analysing all of his actions, trying to decipher him as much as he was them. 

“I… did not know it was in Portugal.”

He unfolded and refolded his hands, shifting his shoulders like an old house settling into its foundations, and propped his chin up another half inch. Anything to make the other side of the room feel less powerful. They gazed at him steadily, and he suddenly wished that McCree had stayed, was still warm beside him, hand on his shoulder.

“Well, Shimada, we know you’re new here, but we have a favour we’d like to ask.” Morrison always referred to them as _‘we’_ , as though they weren’t two individuals united but a single entity behaving in two different ways. They met in the middle of all their actions.

He nodded.

For the first time Reyes eyed him with something other than hostility.

“The girls have requested that McCree come to see them. Firmly,” Reyes said, lips moving as though the words might bite at him as they left, as though it physically pained him to admit it. None of this made any sense. He had no idea what any of this had to do with him. He stared at them both, eyebrows furrowed, forced to come to terms with the fact that he had no idea what was happening anymore.

“He has requested that as well. Also, firmly. And seeing the shine he’s taken to you, we were wondering if you’d mind accompanying him.”

He stared at them harder, slack jawed for the first time in many years. He blinked, and blinked again, and tried to wrap his head around it. He had expected either a quiet execution, or a quiet escort off the property. Anything but this. This was a motion of trust, this was an olive branch of a proposition. He stared for a moment longer before responding.

“Can Genji not do it?”

Reyes growled at him.

“If you were listening at all you’d know that we actually employ Genji to do work.”

“I was not.”

That got a laugh out of Morrison, but the hostility returned to Reyes eyes. Morrison clapped him on the shoulder, and every part of him jumped, eyes launching up to him like he’d just thrown soup in his lap. There was something extremely strange going on and he could not for the life of him figure out what it was.

“Well, we do need someone to go,” Morrison laughed, “he doesn’t think so, but we’re not sure he’s realised that he can’t drive yet.”

He squinted at them.

And he wanted to hold up his hands in surrender, wanted to retreat, because this was getting out of hand. This was all getting out of control. This morning a subordinate had stuck a piece of paper to his bedroom door with his name on it. Told him that the steel sign was still being made, but it would be there in a few days. The moment he’d left Hanzo had ripped it off and shoved it into his pocket with a feeling of disgust in his belly.

He was becoming an average sight. Sooner or later they were going to start calling him Hanzo and asking if he was coming on missions. No thought horrified him more.

But he felt himself shrug, as though it was simple.

“I see no problem with it.”

Which was a lie.

…

Hanzo’s footsteps were damn near silent, but the crunch of the grass betrayed him. McCree had been sitting there since the ass crack of dawn, thinking that he didn’t want Hanzo to arrive before him, didn’t want him not to arrive at all.

He knew in the pit of his stomach that it didn’t matter how much he or Genji vouched for Hanzo, the logic to evict him was sound and Gabe was capable of terrible things. He’d wanted to wait outside the door, listen in a touch, but Ana had dragged him off by his ear for a check-up. He suspected she was in on it. She was always was. By the time he’d scrambled back, Gabe’s office was empty, and everyone was gone.

When he leaned over the back of the bench, he caught Hanzo mid step, as though he thought he was as silent as the breeze that wafted in over the ocean. His hair was tied over his shoulder with that yellow ribbon, and his eyes were clear. He was uncompromising. McCree had been sitting on the bench with all the parts of him drawn together, a taunt body trying to look relaxed but Hanzo approached as though his presence was a mere flourish.

He couldn’t have known the relief that rolled through him just knowing that he hadn’t been put on a bus back to Japan or some shit. He couldn’t have known that McCree’s heart settled back into his ribs at the sight of him, all his limbs, complete or otherwise, settling back into their sockets, his breath leaving him like he was a balloon filled with much too much air. And he was back being himself again, trying to deny to nobody in particular that he’d hadn’t really been that all that affected after all.

“Good mornin’, sweetcheeks,” he breathed, grinning softly at him, pleased to see him, that he was still there, meeting him like he’d met him every morning, without fail.

He enjoyed the way Hanzo’s eyebrows furrowed. He enjoyed most of the things that Hanzo did.

…

McCree had waited for him. He’d woken up late, but McCree was still there, ash tray full of cigarette butts, shoulder’s tight, hunched over his knees.

When he sat down, McCree offered him sips of his coffee, cigarettes and a light. And he was a bird being persuaded to stay. He was dressed in the clothes must have slept in, shirt unbuttoned, sweats. Hanzo wouldn’t leave his room anything less than presentable, but McCree swung around in his pyjamas, built on the certainty that there was no lying to these people, that they had probably seen him in worse. Hanzo watched him lean back, sighing happily, looking out to the horizon as if it was his first time he was seeing it. He was smiling, he was always smiling.

McCree scratched at his beard and Hanzo gazed at him.

“You need to shave.”

McCree raised an eyebrow at him, pulling at the hairs on his chin.

“I kinda like it.”

“You shouldn’t.”

When McCree laughed he felt it in the core of his chest, like holding his ear to a speaker, he felt the vibrations more than the noise. And it felt strange to be sitting there, hearing it in his bones, feeling good about it. It had been such a long time since anyone’s laugh had given him anything but annoyance, vague resentment. And yet as he sat on the bench beside him, he derived such simple pleasure just from just making McCree giggle. It shouldn’t have been possible, he’d been so certain that it wasn’t.

“If it’ll make ya happy, darlin’, I’m on it.”

The words rang in his ears, a blush rising in his throat, boiled down to his youngest self, to the person who felt every pet name, every endearment and coveted them. He scowled because it was customary and tried to make it seem like he was impervious to such comments, aloof, distant. He’d take McCree’s other arm before he exposed the way they pooled in him, warmed his chest.

“I tried to find ya, y’know?” McCree chewed on his lip, “But when I got back you were gone, I tried to find your door, but there wasn’t a sign,” he shook his head out to sea, “there shoulda be a sign.”

Hanzo figured it was still scrunched up in the pocket of yesterday’s pants and winced.

He watched McCree take a drag on his cigarette. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d become so familiar with someone’s movements. He could have painted McCree from memory, reproduced the bench onto canvas even if it had been years since he’d last seen it.

And he had to keep reminding himself that that was what he had planned, he was planning never to see this bench or this man ever again.

Somehow, he always forgot.

“You should not be so concerned,” he plucked the cigarette from McCree’s fingers to catch the last gasp of tobacco. He had no idea where McCree was producing the cigarettes from, but he savoured them. It was the small pleasure of the morning. He could still feel McCree’s eyes on him.

“Ya haven’t told me what they wanted yet. It ain’t never anythin’ good,” as quick as he was daft McCree flicked the dying smoke from his fingers. Hanzo watched it spin and land a few feet away. There was art to McCree’s tiniest gesture, but Hanzo crafted his expression into one of annoyance. The art gave him nothing but weakness and weakness he did not need.

When he looked back at him, McCree’s face was surprisingly clear, empty of pet names, empty of satire. He was in earnest, he was determined. The snide comment Hanzo had had planned fell from his lips and he looked away.

“I am to accompany you to Portugal, they wished to speak of logistics.”

McCree’s eyebrows launched into his hair, mouth slightly agape, hat somewhat crooked on his head as though he’d adjusted it for comedic affect. Hanzo shot him a look.

“Well, shit. Sorry darlin’, it’s just I thought they were gonna kick you out or somethin’,” McCree rubbed the back of his neck, eyes cast aside, back to being a sheepish, shifty kid.

“Is that you’re preference?”

He hoped that the voice that came out of him was callous, hoped that it betrayed nothing, gave nothing away. He narrowed his eyes, schooled his expression, but he had no idea if it worked, no idea if McCree could see though him or not. Sometimes it felt as though McCree saw all his truths, and sometimes it felt as though they were mountains apart. But he wanted McCree to want him there. He enjoyed the gifts he was given, he felt comfortable, he wanted it to last as long as it could. His youngest self just wanted to feel safe for a while, just wanted to rest. And when McCree was there he rested, rested in the presence of a body that had proved that it would protect him, that had proved itself harmless.  

“Not at all,” McCree laughed, and a paw landed on the back of his neck, fingers just into his hairline and his heartbeat launched into his throat. McCree’s touch was warm, and didn’t rise, his thumb moving across the soft skin of his exposed nape. If McCree felt him tense, he didn’t mention it. “Not at all, I’m glad you’re comin’. I got to meet yer brother, it’s only right, you meetin’ the girls.” McCree smiled at him like he was something precious, and it knocked the wind right out of him, left him reeling. McCree couldn’t have known effect he had, he couldn’t have.

Hanzo stood quickly, almost launching himself off the cliff, McCree’s hand slipping down to where he’d been sitting. He backed away, coughing into his fist as though that meant anything. Surprise showed on McCree’s face, but that only pushed Hanzo further away. He could feel the red under his collar, the flutter in his ribcage. McCree’s sleeve was still tucked into his breast pocket, his eyes still clear, his smile baffled.

Hanzo didn’t know what to do, so he did what he always did. Hands by his sides, he bowed, deep and firm:

“It will be my honour to meet them,” he stammered.  

And he didn’t look at McCree as he strode off, wasn’t even sure that counted as a farewell. But he couldn’t just sit there, couldn’t just get used to McCree touching him like that.

…

Ana’s office was set up so that you sank into it. There was a military neatness to even her throw pillows, but he still felt all of his muscles relax as he disappeared into them, lounging almost carelessly on her couch. She gazed at him from an armchair, dwarfed by its enormous size, one leg crossed over the other and he looked freely around her room, her pictures similar to the ones Reyes had. She had photos of Genji and McCree going back decades, a thousand different backdrops, a thousand different victories, some worn with arms in slings and black eyes, and some in military uniforms.

Behind her desk an enormous photo loomed, bursting with life, with the faces they’d once had. A huge man had his hand around McCree’s shoulders and he couldn’t have been older than twenty in that photo, not with a face like that. Hanzo wondered if it was the same hat.

“Gabe told me you’ll be needing papers. You are taking Jesse to Portugal then?”

“Yes.”

Her expression didn’t change, but for a second, she just observed him, leaning back in her chair, eyes raking over him. But after a moment she reached over to her desk, picked a bowl of sweets up by its rim and offered it to him.

“Good boy.”

He thought about protesting, indulging the brief indignation that slivered between his eyebrows. He was younger than her certainly, but he’d gone to great lengths to become the man he was, to develop the width of his shoulders, build his tolerance for alcohol and violence, his propensity for death. But he chose to stay silent, taking a sweet from the bowl and popping it into his mouth. It tasted like treacle and praise.

She watched him try for several minutes to get it out of his teeth once it had gotten in, and he could almost feel himself shrinking in his clothes. Morrison and Reyes had tried hard to make him feel infantile and had failed, but Amari just had to blink at him and he was a child on her sofa. Even someone as pristine as him was suddenly scruffy, suddenly scab kneed and late to breakfast.

She cleared her throat to get his attention and when it stuck, she opened a folder on her lap as though his regard had been unprompted.

“Do you have a preferred alias?”

He swallowed uncertainly, the candy wrapper sticky in his hand.

“Tanaka Sora,” it was the one he used for reservations, the one he’d been using that first night he’d met McCree. It was the one that came most naturally to him.

“Perfect, I’ll have that written up.” Her eyes scanned the pages in her hands, but it was unclear whether she was actually reading it. “Now,” she became serious, “Overwatch agents are not allowed to travel with civilians they are not related to. It’s an agreement we have with Spain that allows us to travel with arms.”

“Which is why McCree’s sisters are in Portugal?”

That got him another sweet.

“Clever boy. Usually we would fake papers as a sibling or relative when transporting civilians. But you can understand why that wouldn’t work with you and Jesse.” It seemed odd to him that Overwatch was willing to abide by the Spanish agreement, but the moment a condition hindered them they were quick to forge papers. She opened her mouth to continue speaking, Hanzo trying to lick the lolly off the roof of his mouth deep in thought when a knock came of the door. McCree stood in the doorway, dressed for the day, freshly washed and shaved, his beard as tidy as Ana’s throw pillows.

Their eyes clicked to him.

“Ah, Jesse, you’re late.” She viewed him gently, firmly, smile playing at her lips at the sight of him, another kid for her collection, this one more familiar, more prone to mischief. And Hanzo could see that they knew each other very well, knew each other from their family photos to their emergency contacts, embedded in their last will and testaments. It was all interwoven and yet, they were still so pleased to see each other. Like every time, it was a happy surprise that neither of them had bitten the dust yet.

Her eyes twitched back to Hanzo and she gestured to McCree.

“Meet your husband, Shimada.”

They stared at her, and suddenly he could hear his heartbeat in his eardrums. And he supposed that was the only logical solution to two men of different ethnicities needing to travel together. But some feeling in his belly told him that he had literally never heard a worse idea, there was no considerable option he liked less. The only thing worse than becoming attached was people knowing, was _telling_ people.

Even if it was fake.

He went red from his cheeks to his collar, and he was sure that his body temperature went up two or three degrees. Hopefully it would kill him. McCree’s laugh brought him back, full belly from across the room.

“Lordy, Hanzo. You look downright offended. Y’ain’t never had fake marriage before or somethin’?”

He was being laughed at. He’d shot men between the eyes for looking at him funny, but McCree got off scot free with a snarl.

“Sit down, _habibi_ ,” Ana’s voice was firm, but there was laughter in her eyes. Jesse grinned at her, striding into the room, all boots.

“Sure, sure, just let me grab one of those candies.”

She slapped his hand away, and pointed to the couch, reasserting her authority in the room. Hanzo noted his small victory as McCree shrunk away, receding to the couch where he flopped, arching over the pillows, more comfortable in this space than Hanzo was in his own quarters. McCree eyed him.

“Did you get one?” He hissed. Hanzo held up two fingers. McCree snarled to no one. “Oh, god _-damn_.”

And Hanzo figured there were worse people to be married to.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have this head cannon that Hanzo is like SUPER determined to be all 'conceal, don't feel' about fucking everything, but when it's McCree, he just spends all his goddamn time fuckin staring at him because he so handsome and so nice. And he spends the whole time being like 'I have fucked up real bad.'
> 
> I would shoot a man for Ana Amari, good day everybody. 
> 
> See you next week.


	6. Not Unpleasant Company

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, cool.
> 
> So I fucking love the trope of Genji being like a go between of these two, like matchmaker extraordinaire. But I've also got this lowkey head cannon that the Shimada bros are both utterly emotionally blind. But in like very different ways. Like, Genji is outgoing and confused, and Hanzo is withdrawn and confused. Like:
> 
> Hanzo stares at McCree for hours, enjoys being doted on by him, follows the sound of his voice, is electrocuted by his touch.
> 
> Hanzo: What. the fuck.
> 
> Genji seeing all of this, all the longing looks and dopey eyes.
> 
> Genji: I'm sorry, WHOmst the fuck is this. This is not my brother. What is happening. What. I am conFUSION. 
> 
> So, anyway. Enjoy.

Genji found him wherever he hid, head appearing at the edge of the roof.

He offered no surprises; Hanzo had seen the green glow in the darkness long before he got half way up. He gave his brother no attention, eyes staying firmly on his book, listening to his steps, to the metal of his body hitting the roof beside him. He sat a foot away, leaning on the same air conditioning unit that Hanzo did, respecting his space now in a way he’d never done before.

It took Hanzo’s breath away, that he could be so still, that he’d changed so much. He tried not to show it.

Instead he gazed upwards, book open in his lap, watching the stars, blooming in the silken sky. Anything to keep from looking at him.

“I did not know you were going to Portugal tomorrow.”

It was such a particular thing to say, presented to him as if it was a gift for him to unwrap. Something to be decoded, unravelled. There was meaning woven though the words, but Hanzo didn’t know whether he could withstand it, if he could bare the weight of whatever it was Genji thought he was insinuating.

He found himself mid-way through a shrug before he could help it.

“McCree wishes to visit his sisters. He cannot drive.”

He kept his eyes down, kept quiet, even though there were hundreds of conversations he wanted to have with his brother, so many questions he wanted to ask. He wanted to know if he was happy here, if these people took good care of him, if he was okay doing all this fighting. He wanted to know why he’d tried to speak with him again, whether he even knew that Hanzo was sorry. But there was so much that Hanzo hadn’t seen, so many parts of Genji unfamiliar. And he knew he had no right to know, not after taking so much.

So, he stuck to the silence, stuck to distance, brothers only in name, only in the great infinite past. Genji was always the first to speak.

“You spend a lot of time with him.”

It wasn’t a question, but it haunted him in similar ways.

He wanted to explain that it wasn’t as simple as that; it was more complicated, there were more layers. When they were on the bench, sharing a cigarette or two before breakfast it could be summed up in a hand gesture. But in the evening, when McCree retired to nurse his wounds, on rooftops and in darkness, everything was interwoven. When McCree was next to him he was neither the runway nor the vines, but when he was alone, worse when he was alone with Genji, he was somehow both. Invaded and invader, impacted and impacting. Neither voluntary.

He stayed silent, leafing through an unread page.

“When I said you might end up liking him, I didn’t think you’d take it as a dare.”

Genji’s voice was steady and level, as unshakable as the building below him, as the statue in the middle of a square, he said things like they had been said a billion times before. As though he couldn’t help that he carried the tradition.

Hanzo gave him nothing.

But when he looked over he found Genji watching him, searching him, trying to find some truth, find the cavern where Hanzo held all his hidden thoughts. He looked like such a kid, shoulders forward, somewhere between eager and determined, to know him, to understand what was happening. And whatever retort Hanzo had had planned dissipated and he was left listless. Desperate for dishonesty, desperate for the cool embrace of insincerity, to explain that McCree meant nothing to him, that he was just a placeholder for solitude. To prove himself cold.  

He couldn’t.

If this was what Genji needed, he wouldn’t break it. If what he needed was to air his enquiries in strange and cryptic ways, then he’d let it happen. There were still parts of him unable to engage, but he’d offer him his silences, his spine, his body rooted to the roof, a place for him to set down his grievances. If that was what he needed.

He tried to hold his gaze, tried to be steady, frowning, shoulders heavy.

“His company is not unpleasant.”

Genji’s eyebrows went up like blinds on a window, the corners of his mouth turned down in surprise.

“How much of you did it take to say that?”

“I will not say it again.”

He listened to Genji’s metal spine clinking back onto the air-conditioning unit, leaning back in satisfaction. Perhaps Genji just mostly wanted to make him miserable, make him say things he’d promised not to.

…

The next morning the sky was clear and when the sun rose there was no shade to hide in.

“My company ain’t bad then, huh?”

“Do not speak to me.”

…

Reyes’ hand landed on his shoulder like a gavel to a wooden bench and he froze, the jacket he’d taken from McCree’s shoulders suddenly clenched in his hands, midway through tucking it in between two duffle bags in the backseat of the car. His breath stilled in his chest and he turned back like an old door creaking open, looking back at him, dark in the broad, hot sunshine.

The hostility had returned to Reyes’ eyes, his nose crinkling, beanie pulled low over his forehead even with the Spanish summer beating down on them, even with the Watchpoint reduced to its underclothes. Hanzo sneered, refusing to show his intimidation.

“Back in four days, ya’ hear?”

The message was loud and clear, ringing in his ears. And he knew that if he so much as looked at McCree wrong, returned him in any state other than pristine, failed to protect him in any way, Reyes would have him court martialed and shot. He felt the ground solidify beneath him, felt the universe steady with Reyes’ eyes boring into him and his contempt clear on his face.

Reyes couldn’t have known how comforting he found it to be hated, the safety he felt in the indignance that bloomed in his chest, in the defences he could erect with good reason. Reyes gave him an excuse to be cold, a reason to curl his lip, turn up his cheek and growl.

“If not sooner.”

Reyes let out a bark of a laugh, no scrap of joy in it, and turned away. Storming over to where McCree stood to mutter things to his ear; quiet but obvious, Spanish warnings. Hanzo appreciated his lack of discretion, appreciated the growing defiance in his chest, anchoring him in his spite.

McCree waved him away, and Hanzo watched his eyes return to Ziegler, watched him listening politely. She lectured him, hand on his arm, eyebrows together. But it only took a few minutes for him to wriggle out of her grasp, reassure her that he was in safe hands. Hanzo had never, not once in his life, met anyone who thought that his hands were safe hands.

He didn’t let his eyes linger.

If Genji had seen, they must all have.

He packed the car, eyes on his own hands, but he couldn’t help the way his ears followed the sound of McCree’s voice, convincing her to let him clamber into the car, hoisting himself up the step and falling into the passenger seat. She followed, chirping like a bird until he closed the door firmly between them, leaning out the open window so that she could kiss his cheek between the frenzied instructions about painkillers and antiseptic and gauze.

Hanzo watched them out of the corner of his eye as he tucked himself into the driver’s seat. The inside of the car smelt like dust and old leaves and whatever cologne McCree was entertaining himself with. He watched her backing off, waving, watched McCree waving back, twisting to get his good arm out the window, winking and grinning, joy clear on his features. Hanzo took that as his queue and turned the key in the ignition. The car hummed into life with hardly a hitch or sputter and McCree stroked the dashboard affectionately, his hand leaving marks in the dust.

“See, I told you she was good for it,” he grinned. Hanzo frowned back.

“Put your seatbelt on.”

And soon they were driving, heading for the Spanish boarder, fake passports in their pockets. With the windows open McCree ran his fingers though his hair, trying to feel what little breeze there was on his scalp. Hanzo tried to look anywhere but the locks of hair curling around his ear, pooling inside his collar. Instead he fiddled with the air-con. No matter what knobs he twisted, buttons he pressed, there was no response. McCree laughed at his efforts.

“Nothin’s come out of there in years darlin’, you’re pressin’ your luck.”

Everything McCree said grated at him, bit at him like mockeries, a constant reminder that he’d spent the better half of his adult life trying to live independent of company, and it had been a month and a half at most. Fucking nothing, comparatively.

And yet, here he was, corrupted, soft hearted, and exploited.

“So, what’s your alias again?”

He refused to respond.

“Just wonderin’ what I should call you in fronta folks is all.”

He would not be dragged down so easily. He was not here to make friends, he wasn’t some child vain to sweet words or a smile.

He longed for McCree to look at him the way Reyes did, longed for a sort indiscriminate distrust, the safe absence of generosity. Yearned for it like an astronaut yearning for gravity, for the world to be put right again, all the rules back in order. Up being up, down being down, him alone and despised, all his defences intact. But he had no defences for the sort of mindless warmth McCree offered him, he was unprepared, left open and vulnerable to the way he never spoke sharply, no matter how long his sullen silences stretched. He was fully aware that there were versions of him that tasted like metal in the mouths of strangers and there was a part of him that wanted to induce it, wanted to remind him that they weren’t friends.

They weren’t friends.

And if McCree didn’t come with a glare built in, perhaps it was safer to give his own in surplus, easier to drive him away than be left.

“You may call me Sora, or nothing at all.”

“Ah, okay, darlin’.” There was a pause, but he refused to look over at him, refused to think about what his expression might look like. “I guess, I’ll just call ya Sora.”

“That’s your business.”

He stopped responding after that. Because it was his only option.

…

Once the heat was in, it stayed in.

Even with all the windows down he swam in his clothes, a long queue of other cars ahead of them, inching forward every half minute. He chewed on his bottom lip, his shoulders set, and his dread sitting warm and squirming at the bottom of his belly. It was as if the closer they crept to the checkpoint the higher the humidity, the higher his chances of doing a barrel roll out of the vehicle and making for the shrubbery.

They rolled further towards the checkpoint, the pit in his stomach growing wider and wider, deeper and deeper. It still took all of forty-five minutes to roll up to the window, forty-five minutes spent stewing, McCree keeping to himself in the passenger seat, eyes pointed firmly out the window, hat in his lap. A woman looked at him, her uniform buttoned all the way to her throat even in the heat, her eyebrows still and fearsome. She seemed to recognise them, or at least their car, frowning deeper.

 _“Si usted es de Overwatch, necesitaré ver los documentos de su agente,”_  her mouth was set in a grim line across her face, eyes almost hidden by the rim of her hat. He couldn’t help but turn to McCree, as though the longer she was kept waiting the more wrathful she’d be when he finally answered. He tried to keep the pleading from his eyes, hoping McCree hadn’t noticed the lengths he’d gone not to look at him.

McCree’s smile was designed to put him at ease, but he refused to let it do so.

“She’s just sayin’ she needs to see our papers, pumpkin. Get yer passport out.” McCree’s eyes left him as soon as he was finished speaking, and if even he smiled, even if his voice was unchanged, something in his stomach went cold, eyes flickering firmly back to the steering wheel.  _“Soy el único con papeles de agente. Este es mi esposo.”_  McCree’s hand landed on his shoulder and he damn near jumped out of his skin. He wasn’t designed for this sort of contact, to be introduced like this, as though he was harmless. Touchable.

He moved as carefully as possible, every single part of him tense, offering the woman their passports with his eyes down. He let her hold each of them up to each other faces in turn, scrutinising their features, McCree’s thumb moving back and forth over his collarbone, just under the cloth of his shirt. Inside, his heart was rattling around his chest like a bouncy ball gone rogue against his ribs. It took everything he had to keep the colour from his cheeks.

The woman snapped his passport shut with a scowl and handed it back to him, McCree’s as well. Her eyes steadied on McCree, looking at him like they knew each other, but she was not happy about it. Hanzo turned the ring he’d been given to wear around on his finger. McCree’s was on the same chain as his dog tags, Hanzo could just see the glint of the gold from between the buttons of his shirt.

_“Por favor, salga del vehículo, lo procesaremos.”_

_“No es problema.”_  McCree gave her his most charming smile, the one that went to his canines but didn’t reach his eyes. Hanzo stared at him for a translation, trying to look cold and indifferent, and failing. “She just wants us to get out of the car. They need to process our request.” McCree squeezed his shoulder, and whatever distance he was trying to maintain was crumbling. “Don’t worry ‘bout it, sweetpea.”

He parked, but not well when the woman directed him to do so, and McCree clambered from the car like a calf taking its first steps. Hanzo took his arm when it was offered, and they followed the woman into the building like new recruits or caught stowaways.

…

McCree touched him just like he’d warned him that he would, arm around his waist, Hanzo tucked against his side like it was nothing. Standing in front of a service desk with their arms around each other while a border officer looked over their papers, exquisitely forged. Hanzo could feel his shirt riding up at his hip where McCree had planted his hand, but his fingers stayed firmly on the fabric, never slipping down. They were supposed to be familiar with each other, familiar with the touch of skin to skin, with the shapes of each other’s hips.

But McCree kept a careful distance even here, and Hanzo could tell he was working hard not to anger him, working hard to not overstep his bounds. That only made it worse, to be the eggshells under his boots, to be the threat that need to be placated, to be the thing that McCree made sure not to look at, eyes roaming anywhere else. Even with his arm around him, his shoulders relaxed, and his expression seemingly light, Hanzo could feel the tension in him. It was the little things, the squint of his eyes, the way he rolled his tongue over his teeth, his hand completely unmoving at his hip, almost stiff, not wanting to be mistaken for a caress.

For all the flirting, all the pet names, he’d allowed up until now, if McCree moved to cuddle him now there was no guarantee he’d be able to stop himself from breaking his wrist.

And he just felt so…  _affected._

He felt every movement McCree made, every twitch, monitored his breathing, his steady heartbeat. Felt how pleasantly warm he was through the thin fabric of his clothes, the smell of sweat, smoke, and honey wafting off him. And it was intoxicating, sparking wars inside of him, forcing contradictory statements, forcing him down onto his haunches, hackles raised, teeth bared. Lest he start dreaming about his hands, the tug of his hair, the feel of his skin. 

McCree stretched out his shoulders, yawning loudly, nose crinkling and his hand shifting just enough for Hanzo’s shirt to creep even further up, until the bottom half of his hand just rested on the skin of his hip. It sent electric shocks through him, his breathes doing double takes in his throat, and his bones held so suddenly still and stiff he feared they might splinter.

“Ah, sorry, darlin’,” McCree’s voice was painfully nonchalant, his hand leaving him for a moment as he peered downwards. Hanzo felt knuckles against his skin as McCree grasped the fabric of his shirt and tugged it back down. It took him everything he had not to launch himself ten feet in the air, everything he had not to be taking the switchblade from his pocket and threatening him with it.

And he had no idea how he’d gotten himself here, standing beside this man with a wedding band around his finger. With his heart lodged in his throat and his breath hitched just from the brush of another man’s skin to his own. It had all made sense in the moment, as he’d rationalised it, but looking back he had no clue how each decision had led to the next. He didn’t know at all how he’d spent decades of his life in cool resignation, the touch of others taken only in the snap of a neck, in the taking of a fading pulse, never cared for. And yet when McCree touched him it made all his muscles vibrate and his heart stammer, his cheeks coloured and the primitive parts of his brain insisting on more.

And McCree said nothing, but Hanzo was sure that he knew.

When they emerged from the pristine air conditioning to the swallowing heat Hanzo released him like he was allergic, darting towards the car with his hands in fists by his sides, aware that McCree had stopped short behind him, but unwilling to look back. He knew he was harsh, but there was nothing he could do. This was the corner he’d been backed into. He wasn’t going to apologise, not while he could still feel his touch at his hip.

“Hey,” McCree called out for him as he pounded towards the car. Hanzo could hear him jogging to catch up to him. He hated that the first thought that occurred to him was that he shouldn’t be running, Ziegler had explicitly stated a ban on strenuous activity. McCree had made a sex joke, he remembered.

He turned with his shoulders forward and McCree’s face was mostly light, lurching towards him. But Hanzo’s eyes slipped by him, to the figure running after them from the border office, hand already raised in greeting.

 _“¡Hola!”_  The figure called out to them, and McCree tripped forward like a bowling pin knocked from behind. His smile faltered, and for a moment, fright shone in his eyes, caught mid tumble. Hanzo could see his mind jolting, re-establishing the facts, and suddenly he went from a lollop to a full speed shake. They collided like he was an oncoming wave. McCree enveloped him, arm clutching at his waist, fingers winding though his shirt and swinging them around. 

McCree was tense beside him, hard as a rock pressed against his side, so different. 

The figure smiled at them, wearing an officer’s uniform, a man a little younger than he and McCree. He waved at them, his enthusiasm boundless. 

_“McCree, ¿cómo has estado? ¿Quien es tu amigo? ¿A dónde vas?”_

He could feel McCree’s fingers gripping his waist as the guard’s eyes flittered between him. His smile said nothing, but Hanzo was beginning to learn that McCree’s smile hid a lot of things. 

 _“Estoy bien, estoy bien. Bueno, he estado mejor.”_ McCree laughed, but it was fake. He wiggled his empty sleeve, and the guard’s eyes widened, and his smile was dismantled in under a second. Apology filled his eyes, but there was something about his sorrow that made the alarm bells in Hanzo’s ears start coughing to life.  _“Oye, no te preocupes por eso.”_  McCree grinned and shrugged at him as though his arm wasn’t the first thing he thought about every morning and the last when he went to sleep. McCree looked down at him with a thousand hidden emotions. He almost looked afraid, his eyes pleading, pleading with him to play along. “Anyway,” he switched to English, “I don’t think you’ve met my husband, Sora.” 

The guard hardly missed a beat, taking any option that didn’t involve talking about McCree’s arm. Hanzo understood completely but did not enjoy the way his face lit up, darkened, and lit up again as he processed the information. Hanzo found himself at the centre of his attention, his eyelashes fluttering, looking over him. 

“Darlin’, this is a friend o’ mine. Marco.” 

McCree’s refused to use his remaining arm to do anything but hang onto him like he was dangling from a steep drop, but he waggled his head in the guard’s direction. The man called Marco was looking at him with all sorts of lights in his eyes. He had the eager shoulders of a gossip, but the twitching hands of a predator. McCree did not relax as Hanzo reached out to shake the man’s hand like westerners liked to do. 

Marco grasped his hand and McCree hand tightened on his hip like it took everything he had not to be running, not to be acting on his instincts. His face was as serene as untroubled waters, but his body was as stiff as a chair keeping a door from opening. Hanzo swallowed and tried not to hesitate. It occurred to him that this behaviour indicated a danger, like an anvil hanging above their heads that only McCree could see. 

“It’s lovely to meet you,” Hanzo’s voice was level, and his heartbeat settled. He could feel the handle of McCree’s Peacekeeper pressed into his thigh, and he knew his reliable switchblade was still tucked into his back pocket. Marco smiled at him. 

“The pleasure is all mine. Really.” His accent was thick, but manageable. And McCree smiled down at Hanzo as well, his eyes trying to tell him something he couldn’t possibly understand. “So where are you gentlemen off to on this fine day?” He rocked back on his heels, hands in his pockets and Hanzo swung his arm around McCree’s waist and they leaned together like they were trying to combine their centres of gravity. His fear left him like leaves on a sidewalk, swept away by the wind of something he could focus on, something more deserving of his attention than his own worry. He was built upwards by the quiet danger, by McCree warm by his side, stabilised by the prospect of fighting, honest and clear. He itched for violence, for the sweet, controlled release of a defensive assault; for a swinging fist, for his switchblade and McCree’s gun. 

“We’re visiting my sisters a couple hours away, just north of Madrid.” 

McCree squeezed him, and he squeezed back. 

“It will be nice,” Hanzo said out loud, “it is a good time of year to be seeing family.” His smile relaxed, and his shoulders straightened.

“Oh, yeah, definitely.” Marco’s eyes were on him, but his was an impossible impasse. He would not be moved. “So how did you meet our McCree anyway? I haven’t ever heard him talk about you before,” a slight bite to his voice.  

McCree laughed, and if he’d spent less time over analysing the ways that McCree laughed, he would have heard nothing wrong with it. Marco’s eyes darted between them, and Hanzo wondered if he’d heard it too. 

“Oh, well. What with my career choices n’ all.” 

Hanzo laughed with him, because McCree had been winning, had been so calm and so natural, but his lead was narrowing fast. The sun shone down on them; a sweaty, shifty gang of chess players with no pieces left to sacrifice.

“No, no, it’s fine,” he chuckled in a way he hoped was convincing, “he was working in my home country, Japan. We met in the restaurant he was pretending to work in.” 

And that wasn’t terribly inaccurate. Macro grinned at them, dull glint in his eye.

“Beautiful, beautiful,” he crooned, something in that statement making McCree’s smile flicker. 

“Well then,” McCree said louder than was necessary, puffing out his chest and looking around like he’d forgotten they’d come here in a car. Up until this point he’d been fairly adept at most things, but in front of this man he was close to falling over standing still. “We better be goin’. Told the girls we’d be there by lunch time.” 

Hanzo smiled at the guard as though his calm demeanour would make up for McCree’s oncoming madness, considering that it was already mid-afternoon. 

“Yes, we should be going. It was a pleasure, of course,” he was his most gracious self, but the longer McCree stood there the less articulate he became. Marco blinked at them, but Hanzo was ruthless. They would be leaving, regardless of the niceties of abrupt departures. 

“Right then, well, I guess,” Marco’s mouth twisted as though he wanted to say more but had been cut off too soon, “I’ll see you both at a later date, then.” 

“Yes, definitely. See you later, Marco. Bye!” McCree laughed loudly at nothing and swung them around like a carousel suddenly going full speed. They marched towards the car more like soldiers in line than a married couple, holding each other like rifles in their elbows. The moment they reached the car, Marco disappeared back into the building and McCree threw himself into the back seat. 

He buried his face in Hanzo’s jacket. 

…

Hanzo pulled over the second they lost sight of the border, turning off the engine, putting on the hand brake and swivelling in his seat until he was staring back at him. His face was utterly taunt, like the rope he used to keep his hands from around McCree’s neck was fraying, like his patience was slipping. McCree writhed under his gaze, knowing that nothing good could come from this, from their sitting stationary on the side of the road and Hanzo looking at him head on for the first time all day. 

He shuddered and cringed, Hanzo’s face demanding explanations, demanding clarity, demanding his attention. 

“Are we going to speak about what just happened?” His voice was severe and angry, and he made McCree want to bury his head in the sand. He wanted to dig himself a shallow grave and lie there until the heat killed him, just to keep from facing the shame of it. 

But he wouldn’t let McCree get away with moody silence for long, his eyes fierce. 

When Genji had come to him in the morning, had told him that they suspected there was a spy in the Spanish Boarder Force, keeping track of their movements, his mind had leapt to only one overly-friendly face. And there was something about Marco that spooked him, spooked him as much as a man in a big coat in the Spanish summer could. 

He felt it more in his bones than in his head, in the base of his spine, knowing in his belly that there was something off about him, something too inquisitive, too interested. But he’d never meant for them to meet, the fact that they had made everything exceptionally more complicated, made the target on Hanzo’s back even bigger. And the thought had terrified him, the thought that he’d gotten Hanzo into something awful and dug him in deeper. 

He’d seen the way that Marco had looked at him, the way his eyes had clicked to him like he was consumable, like he was a fresh breath of luck, delivered into his jaws on a silver platter. Didn’t even need to go abroad to get to one of Jesse McCree’s soft spots. 

And husband or otherwise, Hanzo had become a soft spot. 

It had made him want to throw Hanzo over his shoulder and bolt for the car, made him twitch for the Peacekeeper in his hand, for a locked door or a brick wall. Made him want to growl, made him want to call Gabe and tell him they were coming home, and they were never going out until he had a new arm and permission to burn the checkpoint down. He’d settled for wrapping his arm around Hanzo’s waist and keeping him firmly against his side, as though that didn’t just confirm that Hanzo was a good thing to threaten if they wanted his attention. 

“Uh,” he rubbed at his face and kept his eyes down, “so ya know the fellas who attacked us in the restaurant?” 

“I do remember, yes,” he could feel the ice in his tone like he’d been able to feel it all day. 

“Well, Genji happened to mention this mornin’ that they seemed to be gettin’ orders from Spain, from an organisation with its nose in border business in fact. And he seemed to believe that there was bound to be someone at our particular checkpoint. Monitoring us. And stuff,” he shrugged, eyes only for the carpeted floor. “Figured it was Marco. Panicked a touch is all.” 

It was hard, but honest to admit it. He’d been in danger before, lied with a threat over his head before, lied better than that, but when it was Hanzo it hurt more than it should have done. Made him a bit madder, less put together. He rubbed his elbow and glanced up to his face, hoping against all odds that he’d find a merciful expression there.  

Instead his lip was curled, his eyes like shards of glass, face dressed in his finest snarl. And McCree was no longer protected by the fact that they were pretending to be in love, and Hanzo was looking at him like he was the cockroach crawling over the display cakes in his favourite bakery. 

“So, you’re telling me,” he said very slowly, nose crinkling, “that you, in possession of information, still decided that this half-hearted scheme was a good plan?” McCree didn’t respond, because he had nothing good to say. “Not to mention,” Hanzo pronounced all his syllables, his voice getting louder with each one, “that you proceeded without even  _telling_  me about it? As though I were some fucking subordinate without a stake in the matter?” His voice came out like a hiss, like glass cracking, the sound of something smooth becoming sharp.

McCree buried his face in Hanzo’s jacket laid across his lap and groaned loudly in response. It wasn’t like he was a great thinker, but truth be told, he’d figured that the less involved he became, the less danger he’d be in. 

He’d made a commitment. 

When he’d gone for him, when he’d tried his best to keep them safe, he’d made a commitment not to let the world get to this man. Sure, he only had one arm and was not a good liar, but he was very well intentioned. 

He heard Hanzo sigh. 

“Just get in the front, McCree,” when he looked up Hanzo was rubbing his fingers over his face, looking tired, “I am not a fucking chauffeur.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cool, yay for touch starved Hanzo
> 
> Also, I think of McCree as like being legitimately pretty smart, but the second that it has something to do with Hanzo and all his thinking is done with the part of his brain that is still fifteen years old and going through a sexuality crisis. Acts like a kid caught making out in a supply closet. 
> 
> Word.


	7. Sake Theft

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter was very Hanzo centric, so this ones a bit more McCree and his fairly baffled inner monologue. I find writing McCree to be weirdly difficult, cause I think of the inside of his head as like fifty percent elevator music, old pick up lines, and blushing teenage angst. But he also has many feelings. 
> 
> Life is complicated. 
> 
> Word.

Hanzo sat in the middle of the bed, cigarette perched between his fingers, book open in his lap. His hair was loose around his shoulders, yellow ribbon tied around his wrist. He was dressed in his evening yukata, sitting cross-legged, precisely positioned to take up all the space on the mattress. Most of the time, he looked like he was going to a job interview, all perfectly dressed and pristine, but here, here he was just himself, sneering.

The moment McCree came to stand by the bed his shoulders stiffened, lip curling at him.

McCree averted his eyes and shuffled. Sometimes it felt like if he looked too long at Hanzo he might do a combat roll out the window and never be seen again.

Hanzo snarled without prompting, that way he’d been doing for the past day or two. McCree could see some snide comment forming in the way his eyes narrowed, in the way his nose crinkled as if in disgust, eyebrows arched. But he seemed stiff, behind the rigidity of his shoulders, behind the contempt in his eyes, almost awkward, holding onto hostility like a rope sliding through his fingers.

Hanzo glared at him, flicking the ash from the end of his cigarette into the ashtray he’d set on the bed, and McCree cleared his throat. He might as well have had a subpar diplomatic treaty prepared, the way Hanzo looked at him, and if it had been anyone else, he probably would have snarled back. He’d never thought himself prideful, he’d never particularly minded what people thought of him, but he refused to believe that this change was the natural course of things, refused to believe that Hanzo had only just realised the folly of their relationship.

They were friends, they had been friends, he was not mistaken.

And he wasn’t designed to watch something he was enjoying slip out of his grasp. He enjoyed their mornings together too much, enjoyed the conversations they had, enjoyed the way Hanzo raised his jaw when he considered the things McCree said, the way he pursed his lips, and wore his hair.

His good things were too far and few between to just let them slip away.

“So, I wanted to thank you for comin’ with me,” his voice came out soft, deliberate and determined where he’d meant to be suave, flirty. He set the bottle of sake down on the table at the foot of the bed like an offering at the altar of a long indifferent god, setting his shoulders and standing straight. Like it was his posture Hanzo would find in him to critique, out of everything. “I got this for ya.”

That wasn’t true; he’d stolen it.

It was a gift, Genji had given it to Gabe a couple years back. He remembered the exact expression that had flickered across his face when he’d unwrapped it, a half second long before he’d schooled it. He remembered the way Gabe had thanked him, patting Genji's metal shoulder with half a grin, tucking it very firmly into the very back of his liqueur cabinet.

McCree stared at the bottlecap, keeping his eyes anywhere but Hanzo, unable to hold his own to his scrutiny, and watched nimble fingers reach for it. His nails were so neat, all clean and shiny. McCree looked at his own nails, picked at the dirt under his index finger, traced the thin scar at the nail bed as Hanzo pulled the sake to his chest, reading its label. McCree had no idea what it said, but he trusted Genji’s taste, hadn’t let him down yet. And he knew the Shimada’s were fancy and all that.

Hanzo hummed and it was like music to his ears. He felt himself lighten.

“This is good,” Hanzo’s thumb moved over the faded label, eyes flickering up at him. He had the prettiest eyes. McCree tried not to stare, but before he could look away Hanzo licked the corner of his mouth, and he was called to attention like a dog to a dinner bowl. “Thank you, this will make good drinking.” Hanzo nodded to himself and McCree couldn’t help but grin. 

“Well then, I guess I’ll leave you to it.”

He retreated to the balcony like he’d done in their first hotel room, leaving the door open behind him, leaving Hanzo with an opportunity, a sort of quiet welcome. If he wanted it, McCree would be there, empty chair beside him, reacquainting himself with the night. He chose not to dwell, just put his feet up on the rail and lit a cigarette. Like he’d done this a thousand times before, like he was a man of many, many olive branches, offering them almost constantly.

He sat back to watch the evening settle in.

…

It took no more than an hour for Hanzo to appear at the door, bottle in his hand, his yellow ribbon trailing, McCree smiling up at him. Hanzo never smiled back, face always grave if not actively bellicose, but he took a seat beside him, table between them; cold and distant, but in his presence again. The two glasses clinked as he set them down, his eyes staring out to the courtyard as he took his time working the cap off the bottle. He poured two inches into each glass with the same precision with which he handled his bow. He flicked one towards McCree.

It was a sort of generosity, a sort of apology sunk to the bottom of the glass and offered to him. As though it was nothing, as though Hanzo hadn’t spent the past forty-eight hours refusing to speak to him, refusing to look at him, fleeing from him the moment that opportunity arose.

McCree picked up his glass and took a contemplative sip, eyes trailing from his face, cigarette between his fingers.

It wasn’t the genre of alcohol he usually sought, clear and dry. There was nothing of his history here, associated with few memories, more experimental than reminiscent. But that was a kind thing, in its own way. To drink untethered from the boy he’d been when he’d learnt how to drink, untethered from the man who needed to forget, who needed to recede back into the darkness from which he’d come.  

He figured there were worse ways to get smashed.

Hanzo said nothing, hand on his stomach, slumped in his chair, one knee lazily crossed over the other. He looked so calm, his façade only half raised, eyes still sour, but no longer pointed at him. He noticed quietly that the bottle had to be at least four fingers lighter than when he'd handed it over, just enough to take the tension from his bones, to leave him looking for a company, a cigarette or two.

A pleasant warmth pooled in his belly, a kind of triumph to mirror the defences Hanzo had placed at his feet.

He smiled to himself and watched Hanzo raise his glass to the oncoming night.

“To sake,” he declared, voice still snarling and firm, bitter. But it sounded so perfect in his accent, McCree watching him surrender from two feet away, watching him agree to something, taking what was offered and sharing. Few things had ever given him more pleasure.

He raised his glass to the sky.

“To sake,” he murmured, eyes only for Hanzo.

…

It would have been easier to get Hanzo to bed if he’d had his other arm, and it would have been easier to figure out the physics of the process if he hadn’t drunk so much. His thoughts swam around in his head like it was a fishbowl, and he squinted at things as they doubled and tripled and disappeared.

Hanzo laughed at his efforts to tug him upward, McCree bent over his chair, hardly upright himself, his hand twisted in Hanzo’s yukata. And he laughed too, because Hanzo’s laugh was beautiful, his head falling backwards against the chair, pale throat exposed, glass loose in his hand, liquid sloshing. He got drunk like a machine too thoroughly oiled, he lost his traction on the world and started gliding through the air, unable to stop his own momentum.

He found it more charming than he should have.

He gave Hanzo another half-hearted yank and Hanzo stood like a geyser, with all the force he had left in him, glass tossed to the table, a pool growing around it. Like a dare, he stood, eyes making a joke that McCree missed, because they were suddenly standing very, very close and it made his breath hitch.

The smell of cherry blossoms flooded his senses, bombarded with information his brain was too addled to process, blinking in surprise, nose almost buried the sheets of Hanzo’s hair. No part of him was an inch or more from him, barely touching, and standing in the night-time air, something hot and opportunistic pooling in him. Something that compelled him to press his face into the crook of Hanzo’s neck, something that compelled him to seek out more of his scent, more of his warmth. And suddenly, all he wanted to wrap his arm around his waist, pull him in close, and run his tongue down the side of his jaw, wanted to feel him shiver.

It took his breath away how quickly it all came at him, the desire roaring up out of nowhere to press him into the screen door, find out whether there was underwear under all this fabric. He wanted to touch him so badly, feel him giggle in his arms, all lucid and drunk. He wanted to taste him, wanted to kiss him, run hands through his hair, he wanted, he wanted, he wanted.

But then Hanzo laughed in his ear and he launched himself back like he’d been taken out by a battering ram.

His ankles hit the rail, and his heart bursting up into his throat like there was a rocket launcher in his chest, sobriety knocking the air out of him like a cannonball to the stomach, leaving him horrified and breathless. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears, and in his throat; a constant, bursting thrum, eyes wide, knowing that Hanzo sensed no question, knowing he was a lot drunker than he was, oblivious.

McCree hadn’t meant for him to surrender quite as hard as he had.

Hanzo wobbled on his feet, eyes listless, flashing him a bitter canine, some half-hearted snarl. Whatever drunken joke he’d been trying to make dissipated as quickly as it had come, leaving him on his feet and exhausted by everything. He rubbed at one of his eyes, he looked tired, tireder now with all his defences down, probably drunker than he’d planned to be.

McCree watched him step towards him, watched his chest heave out a sigh, eyes bleary, inhibitions laid down. McCree almost expected him to raise his hands and push, send him toppling over the balcony rail to break his neck and crack his skull on the pavers below. Instead he just rested his head on McCree’s collarbone and closed his eyes, warm against him, like a bird coming to perch on his shoulder for lack of a tree; within arm’s reach, the only nearby lifeboat.

McCree held few delusions, he knew exhaustion when he saw it.

And he’d been so pleased when Genji’d told him, like a kid, knowing he’d achieved the bare minimum, _not unpleasant_ , glowing from the inside out with self-satisfaction, his grin smug and his shoulders careless. Genji had been leaning on the bench in his kitchen, woken him up to tell him the news. He remembered when they’d been young and only just getting to be friends, and Genji would wake him up so that they could spar in the middle of the night, bitter eyed like Hanzo was.

But they were well past that now.

Instead Genji had observed him, arms crossed over his chest with an eyebrow raised, looking at him from head to toe as if seeing him for the first time. He could almost see the questions in his eyes: _what does he see in you? What have you done to him?_ McCree had almost shrugged, because he had no idea, but he’d been mighty pleased about it.

And when Hanzo had started treating him coldly, when his smirk had changed to a sneer, when his distant fondness had become determined venom, it had bothered him like a bad cold, like a personal weather system. It had felt like Hanzo was daring him, daring to be his youngest self, daring him to react badly, take his cold shoulder and return with his own. Daring him to find nothing worth holding onto here, daring him to flee, set down his efforts, give up, and growl.

But he hadn’t.

And Hanzo had come back to him, sat with him, surrendered, McCree failing to notice the way his triumph moved like devotion, that his satisfaction felt like delight.

And he was too old for that shit.

He rubbed his hand over his mouth, staring forward, Hanzo heavy on his chest, almost slack, all backed up against the balcony rail, and Hanzo was going to fall over any second now, he could feel it. Wasn’t going to remember a thing tomorrow, that was for certain; poor thing was going to have a hell of a headache come the morning.

He sighed, the noise coming heartfelt out of even a man like him, lighter hearted than most. His hand came to Hanzo’s shoulder, not pushing him away, not quite, but holding onto him, trying to be gentle.

“Alrighty, darlin’, I think this day needs to end now,” he muttered. He heard a muffled sound from below, vibrating through his chest and he knew the story well by now, knew that the Shimada fable had been kind to none. If Hanzo trusted him enough to rest on him, then that’s what he would offer. A resting place.

There was no need to go over complicating shit, if what Hanzo needed was a friend, a friend he could be. He would guide them back to bed, place Hanzo firmly on his side of the bed, keep to his own.

He was not going to be selfish with something as important as this, he wasn’t.

…

The dawn came like a small wreaking ball swinging into him from a great height. He awoke during the arch backwards; the sun knocked the wind out of him, sweat dribbling down his brow. Here, the summer ate into every room, it weaselled under doors and through windows and once it was in, there was no getting it out.

The weight on his chest hadn’t lifted in the night like he’d expected it to do. He was used to the rhythms now, knew that McCree would rise before he did. For the first time, when his eyelids lifted, and he stared at the ceiling, he could hear McCree’s heavy breathing beside him, feel his fingers just grazing his upper arm.

He’d slept on his back, McCree on his stomach, arm lopped over him like a lazy strike at a tree. When he rolled his head to the side he could see his face, cheek squished against the pillow, hair strewn. His broad back was all muscle and old gunshot wounds. What looked like shrapnel scars crept from under his ribs, stars of fine lines, pale on honeyed skin. But they were old and faded now, scars from trials and errors, of lessons now long learned.

The beginning of the evening was crisp and clear in his memory, the sharpness of McCree’s eyes, the way he’d refused to hold his gaze, the way he’d stepped back. He remembered the way he’d squared his shoulders like there were waves crashing over him, like he was waiting for a storm to pass. He remembered sitting with McCree’s gift in his arms, watching him through the screen door, watching the smoke rising from his hand, wondering what he could have been thinking, if he thought anything at all.

He couldn’t remember the last time being drunk had come with noise, come with company, conversation, the last time that being worn down had felt so good, had filled him with the sweet relief. He’d sat, listening to McCree ramble, not needing to think of snide things to say, not needing to force his face into a sneer. It hurt him to think that he was so easily swayed, that he hadn’t been able to bare the weight of watching McCree waiting for him for more than an hour, the weight of an opportunity offered and turned down.

Things got very hazy after that.

Hanzo reached out, almost unconsciously, and spread his palm over the small of McCree’s back, as though the concept that he would wake at the touch had left him. He didn’t stir. He was the temperature of concrete warmed by the sun, golden and his skin like a hide, like he was built to resist, plunging himself into the world because he knew that he would be able to bare the pain of it to relish in the little pleasures.

And McCree touched him all the time, unknowing of its effect on him, not realising the way that it stayed with him for hours afterward. But to feel McCree’s skin under his fingertips, to feel the dip of his spine, a thin scar or two, it was like a patchwork heirloom passed down through someone else’s family. There was nothing about McCree that was his to touch, his to savour, but his palm stayed flat against his warm skin. He completed the circuit, made an infinity of their bodies.

And McCree would never need know.

…

For a moment, in his sleep, there was pressure somewhere on his body, cool and still. There was shifting beside him, rising and falling. It was as though they were tectonic plates, adjusting the mountains together. The pressure on his back moved, running down his spine, and he shivered. It disappeared, and he fell back to sleep. 

…

The ringtone pierced his dreams and he was up like a brick in a swimming pool, the noise like the light shining down to him in the depths. It buzzed on the side table, clinking against the ashtray left there the night before and he fumbled for it with an arm that wasn’t there. He reached farther and the hand that wasn’t caught nothing. He opened one eye like it had been glued shut with jam, peeking out from between his eyelashes, trying to understand why the noise continued, why the phone wasn’t in his grasp. All he saw was a joint with nothing to join onto, the hollow of his elbow with nothing to shadow it. But he could still feel his fingers curling into a fist, could see where his arm would have reached if it had been there.

He stared for a second, and slumped.

The phone could get fucked, he wasn’t answering shit.

The ringtone mocked him, and he was going to smother himself in his own pillow, face turned downwards. Before he could, a hand landed on his shoulder and the noise stopped. When he looked up Hanzo was standing over him, hair tucked behind his ears, and a look of utter indifference on his face. His hand didn’t move, it just held onto him like if it let go McCree would sink into the mattress and never make his way out again, a quiet reminder to calm down, to not make such a big deal from this. Something in the severity of his eyes, the way he set his mouth, it was like being dragged from the bottom of his swimming pool, taken by the ear and forced to resurface.

He closed his eyes and knew it was Genji by the way Hanzo was talking, the way his nose crinkled, the way his lip curled, and his eyes narrowed. It was shocking to him that this was a kind of healing, that his healing must have looked like this too, way back when. That healing was a phone call taken with a snarl, cutting his hair and letting Gabe drag him back to the ranch for Christmas with his sisters. It had made no sense to him at nineteen and it made no sense to him now, knowing that a year ago, a phone call would have killed them both.

When Hanzo started speaking English and calling whoever it was on the other end of the phone ‘sir’ though, that was another ballgame altogether. He sat up like someone had burst in through the window and he needed to defend their hotel room.

“Is it Gabe? Don’t tell him about the drink.”

Hanzo stared down at him with his eyebrows together, frowning.

“No, sir.” Hanzo said into the phone, moving away from the bedside, sauntering over to their bags by the door. “We will leave soon and arrive by mid-afternoon at the latest.” McCree watched his back, watched him put his hand on his hip and toe their packs away from each other, listening. “Yes, sir. Goodbye.” He hung up, still dressed in his evening yukata, looking hungover and slightly undone.

And the feeling came back, slower this time, sober, hungover, he could almost see how it would happen. He watched a version of himself without a headache, two arms, and a smile amble over. He saw how he would wrap his arms around Hanzo’s waist, how he would kiss his neck. He could see how beautiful it would be for Hanzo to raise his cheek to be kissed, how lovely it would be to be thoughtless, comfortable.

But that wasn’t the agreement he’d made, he had a role to play, he had kindness to repay. He wasn’t going to be selfish with this. He sunk back down into his sheets with a huff, splayed over the mattress, his arms open to the ceiling and a sense of doom in his belly. It was going to be a tough couple of days if he kept on like this.

Hanzo turned back to him, chin in the air, eyes narrowed at him; dishevelled, obi loose around his waist. He sneered, but there was no bite to it, almost playful.

“You heard what I said, get up.”

…

McCree was refusing to look at him, ears pink, hand in his pocket. Hanzo’s eyes flickered back to his fingers, trying to look more at them than at McCree. His shirt hung open in front of him and he went through the process of matching each button to its corresponding hole.

There were many things that he’d seen himself doing in life, but this was not one of them.

It was such a simple gesture, the barest minimum of care, but it felt intimate, held together like this. There had to be so many people more qualified, more sympathetic, softer, could make him feel lighter. He couldn’t help but feel as if he was meant to be someone else. Someone who could properly comfort, who could care for him the way that he deserved to be cared for.

But the shirt needed buttoning, and he’d give what he had to give, brush the lint from his shoulder, straighten his collar.

He worked his way from top to bottom in silence. Until something caught his eye and his hand moved without his permission. He found his fingers on McCree’s chin, lifting it up and peering at the still very clear laceration across his neck. He remembered that cut, and he should have done. It was him that had put it there, saw the spine of his own switchblade still right there on his throat.

McCree had turned to stone beneath his hand like a man sharing a car with a bee. Hanzo settled him with a look, McCree’s eyes were on him like he could go for his jugular at any moment. Hanzo liked that he could still bring that out in a person.

“Why has this not healed yet.”

It came out just as accusing as he had planned, and he refused to release McCree’s chin.

“I nicked it shavin’ is all, it’ll heal in a bit,” he enjoyed watching McCree’s Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed, enjoyed the way he raised his jaw as if trying to wriggle out of his grasp, not wanting to appear as though he was actively resisting. He liked to be in charge, especially of McCree.

After a grunt or two he nodded.

“Good.”

…

They’d shaken any other cars a while back, now there was only the road, and the trees, and the slowly enveloping wilderness. Hanzo drove like a lunatic, but only around corners. There was no fun in a long straight road with bends like a meandering stream. The silence was comfortable, the heat as well, rolling over him, smelling like childhood, like the scab kneed, dusty cheeked kid he’d been. He’d lived through enough hot summers to know that there would come a cool breeze eventually, that the cool change always arrived, that if he was lucky they’d be a porch and some sweet tea, and he was going to enjoy it.

Hanzo had tied his hair up on his head, the first few buttons of his shirt undone in an effort to get airflow to his shoulders. Every few moments he’d lean forward, try to convince any sort of chill to get between him and the hot vinyl of his seat. When he sat back, grumbling to himself in his first language, he wiped the sweat from his temple with the back of his hand. McCree watched him sneer at the road.

“How much farther?”

He wondered if they had sweet tea in Japan, if Hanzo even liked sweet tea. Because he looked like he was just about ready to drive into the river just for the temperature change.

“Can’t be more than an hour now, darlin’,” he murdered.

Hanzo made a face like he was eating a lemon and coming close to just pressing his forehead to the steering wheel and letting momentum do the work of killing them.

“The girls’ll have something cold for us when we get there, don’t you worry,” he tried to sound confident, as though his sisters were at all consistent. He watched Hanzo pause, lip curled, sighing. He sighed like he was a lot older than he was and sat back in his chair, levelling his shoulders.

“You should tell me about them.”

He didn’t request the information, it wasn’t a question.

McCree stared at him, eyebrows in his hairline, blinking, but Hanzo didn’t even glance his way, refused to acknowledge that he’d spoken.

“About the girls? My girls?”

He’d been friends with Hanzo for a firm couple weeks now and he’d hardly asked him whether he’d existed before they met. Every time they spoke it was a confirmation of the present, like Hanzo had been born at his table and McCree at the kitchen door. When they spoke, when they spent time together, they were only the people they were now, only their most present selves.

Hanzo didn’t answer him, but he hadn’t expected him to.

“Oh, well, you’re gonna love ‘em. Or at least they’re gonna love you.” He laughed at nothing and tried to imagine how they would want him to describe them but in a way that would also prepare Hanzo for the experience that was about to hug him and take a hold of his cheeks.

He remembered the first time Genji had told him about his childhood, the brother he’d left behind, the father that had turned them into killers. He remembered Genji describing the first time he’d lain hands on a sword, seeing his older brother trained to kill, to inherit violence and redistribute it. And McCree had been unable to think of a childhood further from his own, so far from the soft embrace of New Mexico, out there in the middle of nowhere; king of a small town, a river, and a dog.

He didn’t know what Hanzo was expecting, didn’t know what image occurred to Hanzo when he heard the word ‘family’, but it probably wasn’t two women in their late forties determined to hug him until he expressed his emotions. Because they would. It was the McCree signature move.

For a moment Hanzo stayed silent, processing the information as he spoke.

“Do they know about your arm?”

“Yeah, Gabe called them. And then Angela called them, and after that Ana called them. If they don’t know they haven’t been paying attention.” He laughed but he couldn’t make it sound the way he wanted it to. And he knew that Hanzo heard him when he lied. McCree watched his face soften, even if he still didn’t get a glance, watched his eyebrows un-furrow. Sometimes, when the arm was mentioned, all Hanzo looked was disappointed and McCree had a hard time figuring out whether it was in him or in himself.

“They will be sad.”

“Yeah, probably.” And what else was there to be said, because yeah, they were going to be sad. Fuck, _McCree_ was sad. “But, hey. They were sad when I wasn’t born a girl, so they’ve had to bounce back from a lot.” Hanzo snorted, rubbing at his mouth as though he might be able to hide the way his eyes laughed. For a moment McCree watched his eyes trail, bitting his lip, impossible to read except that he was considering something.

“When Genji was born,” he began, “our parents told me that when the time came, I was going to have to take care of something very special,” he sucked his teeth and ran a hand through his hair. “I thought they were getting me a rabbit.”

For a moment McCree stared at him. He didn’t think he’d ever heard Hanzo say Genji’s name before, let alone spoken about the people they had been as kids. Back when they were their pre-trauma selves. He rolled his hat around on his head and grinned. It was like a gift of sorts, a quiet declaration.

He felt himself flush, felt joy bubble up through him, shivering over his shoulders. And he was enraptured, enchanted, endeared, all sorts of in trouble, but friendship was good, if that’s what this was, if that was what they kept agreeing to. He’d take it. This was good, and he’d take it.  

“Lordy,” he whispered, like he was staring down the barrel of his own gun, turned back on him. And not quite knowing whether he wanted the trigger pulled or not.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> McCree, the gay bitch he knows himself to be, unable to see literally anything coming: aw fuck he's so beautiful and now I want to die
> 
> FUck.


	8. The Homemade Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonjourno.
> 
> So this chapter is a shoutout to Hanzo and McCree being total buds, like newly reunited in friendship, all nervous and fluttery. Just falling over people to stand next to each other, just a bananas amount of intricate rituals, like like just let me touch your shoulder bro, touch your shirt, hold onto me bro. 
> 
> Also, I would like to take a moment to thank everyone who's given kudos and commented on this fic, like seriously, it means a lot to me. Every time I see that "AO3: comment on...." email its like a shot of serotonin direct into my goddamn sinuses, I go bonkers fucking yonkers for that shit. Thanks.

The house was built low to the ground, an old eucalyptus leaning over the driveway, leaves like chandeliers. For a safe house, the garden was loved, even if it was designed to go months without care, all the plants slow growing and the landscaping fluid. It was more like a bungalow than a house, sweet smelling flower vines arching over the front door, native trees shielding them from the sun. It made him wonder if it was a kind of apology, putting them up in a place like this, trying to soften the blow.

No one emerged as they rolled up the long gravel drive and an anxious squint had come to McCree’s eyes, chewing his bottom lip and considering the house like it was a pyramid of cards in a breeze. Hanzo remembered once, Genji had crawled in through his bedroom window in the middle of the night; bruised eye socket, broken rib, for the favour of a girl, he’d said. He never told their father, but he’d yelled at him till morning came, told him he was going to get really hurt one day. He couldn’t imagine that McCree hadn’t lived that life too, hadn’t crawled home to someone, failed to heed their advice.  

He tried not to think too hard on it, not to think of the boy who had come through his window, and instead helped McCree from the car, hand under what was left of his arm, trying to balance him out. The air was still enough to feel against it his skin, and McCree was staring at the door as though at any point one of his girls was going to burst through it and yell at him.

“Calm down, McCree,” he tried to say it firmly, as though he believed he had no reason to be tense.

McCree’s eyes slipped down to him as he stumbled from the passenger seat to the ground. But they settled on him for only a second before bouncing back to the door, eyes narrowed.

“Yeah, you’re right, darlin’.”

He did nothing at all to relax, and Hanzo patted his shoulder. All that he could suggest was that they didn’t go in through a window.

As he rounded the car for the bags, he came face to face with a snarling dog and his heart launched into his throat.

It was crouched to the ground and furious with him, hackles raised, and teeth bared. Hanzo froze as if he hadn’t been spotted, and for a moment they just stared at each other, the dog letting out a low growl, rage in its eyes, belly to the gravel, like there was something wrong with him. It had the look of an animal with nothing more than an interest in his blood, in defending the driveway with its teeth embedded in his forearm. 

“McCree,” Hanzo hissed, the dog slowly advancing on him, creeping forward. “ _McCree!_ ”

He heard the crunch of McCree’s boots on the gravel, and their shoulder’s bumping together as he rounded the corner of the car.

“Yeah, wha-” And they seemed to recognise each other, like old friends from across a bar. And suddenly McCree was on his knees, arm out, dog-tongue to the face, laughing. And the dog was utterly changed, tail wagging like it was going to snap; bouncing and writhing, body language completely different, tongue lolling out of its mouth, love in its eyes.

McCree looked up at him, wiping the slobber from his nose with the back of his sleeve, the dog burying itself in his chest, going in circles against him for more attention until McCree’s hand returned to between his ears. McCree grinned at him, and Hanzo hoped his trepidation didn’t show on his face. Things that growled at him didn’t usually survive this long.

“Don’t worry. He doesn’t bite.” Hanzo frowned at him, but he could see the way that McCree’s shoulders were loosening, his heart rate slowing. And he was gladder for it, regardless of cause. He even let the dog sniff at his shoes before stepping more firmly towards the boot of the car. The dog flashed him a canine when he touched McCree’s head to get around him; he flashed a canine back.

“Well, if it ain’t Jesse McCree and a handsome stranger. What a red-letter day.”

His gazed shot upwards.

She was older than he’d expected, couldn’t have been within ten years of McCree’s age, grey hairs in dark caught by the light. She stood wearing boots that couldn’t have been her size, dressed in overalls, soft eyed, smiling at them. She was honeyed just like McCree was, designed for the sun, for the earth, laugh lines around her eyes.

She looked calm and pleased to see them, and he wished he was able to return the sentiment.  

McCree stood beside him, their shoulders just brushing, dog running about their feet. The woman’s eyes were on Hanzo, standing a few feet from them, having trudged up the hill though the trees, eyes not even flickering to where McCree’s arm wasn’t anymore, regarding him with a sort of joyous curiosity, as though there was no one he could be that she wouldn’t adore discovering.

“Hey, El.”

Hanzo swivelled his gaze to the right to stare at him. Few times had he ever heard McCree say so little. McCree refused to make eye contact with anyone, looking up towards the trees, hand moving to cover the stump, as if he could hide it. She walked towards them with cool understanding and a smile on her lips, the dog jumping happily at her ankles as she stood in front of them on the gravel, faded freckles on her nose. Hanzo stared over her head, eyes flickering from the top of McCree’s forehead to the top of hers. He spent several seconds trying to figure out how two people of such different sizes could come from the same genetic ingredients.

“Why don’t you introduce me to your handsome friend, Jess?”

He snapped back to attention and her eyes hadn’t left him. He could figure that he was the handsome friend. The dog was also very handsome, but they seemed to be already acquainted. She looked at him with a kind of inquisition, like a woodland animal found in a kitchen, but Hanzo could only watch McCree’s expression twist. Watched him press his lips together at her, finally actually looking at her. And Hanzo knew what that felt like, to be desperate to get the conversation over with, but terrified of the words that they might have to live with, that they might spoil he time they had left together.

She smiled at him as though she didn’t notice his discomfort.

Hanzo felt McCree bump their shoulders together, gesturing towards his sister and back again, looking at him like a man introducing an ally to their Achilles heel. It was hard to tell which he was.

“El, this is Hanzo Shimada, Genji’s older brother. He saved my life.”

Hanzo damn near took a step back at the statement, but Elena already had her hand out ready to greet him and he took it, almost instinctively.

“I really didn’t.”

She beamed at him.

“I refuse to believe that,” her grip was firm, her eyes clear, and he almost felt dwarfed by her tiny stature. “I’m Elena, it’s a pleasure.”

“Certainly,” he ducked his head.

Elena beamed at both of them and radiated sunshine, the dog jumping up at McCree’s stomach.

“Now, why don’t we get you two inside. Something cool in the both of you, and you, Mr Shimada, you can meet Alisa.”

He tried not to show his dread.

…

This time, McCree positioned himself behind Hanzo, head down and shoulders in. And there was nothing inherently threatening about her, but Hanzo rose to his full height and readied himself to take McCree by the wrist and get them out of there. She swayed gently at the kitchen counter, chopping vegetables with a dexterity developed over a lifetime’s worth of home cooked meals.

Elena called out to her first, from the doorway of the kitchen.

“Jess’s here,” and she was stilled in an instant, eyes up, intense and burning. “And he brought a friend.” Elena walked like she was weightless, like she was all loose at the elbows and hips. But Alisa looked at him with a ferocity usually reserved for midnight assailants or grave robbers. If her gaze had stayed on him for a moment longer he would have collapsed inwards, all the air sucked out of him till his imploded from the pressure. But it switched to McCree and her gaze turned icy.

“Jesse Emilio Luis McCree, so help me god.”

She glared down the blade of the knife, pointed over his right shoulder to where McCree was his youngest self, and began to creep towards them.

“I kept that arm alive for eighteen years and you go and fucking  _loose it_?” She had the sort of look in her eye like she was going to come for his other arm, and where Elena had pushed the conversation from the table, Alisa seemed to drag it back. And he could almost see himself in her, that sort of frenzied anger, that kind of you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me rage. The kind of fear that came with inheriting the task caring for something that kept throwing itself into danger on a whim.

McCree cowered behind him, head popping out from behind his shoulder.  

“Jesus, Alisa. Put the knife down would ya, we got guests.” McCree offered him up like the sacrificial lamb he was, and it was good to see that his position had been made clear. He might as well have been a virgin atop an altar, more a distraction than a gift.

He elbowed McCree in the gut as hard as he could and heard the grunt that came from him with some satisfaction.

He watched Alisa’s eyes bounce between them, upper lip twitching, considering him with hard, frustrated eyes. And he wanted to tell her, tell them both. He wanted to tell them that it was him that he had taken the arm, it was him that had let the world take it from their brother, that there was no fault to be laid on McCree’s shoulders, foolish as he was. It was not a bullet taken by accident, there was no carelessness here, and they should know.

But he couldn’t say it, he couldn’t get an apology past his throat, all he wanted was to flee, he had his own family angst to process, he had no time for McCree’s. But he was holding onto the back of his shirt, holding him like he was shield. And if that was what was needed of him, if what McCree needed was not to be aided in escape but strengthened in defence, then that was what he was here for. That was what he would do. Defuse. He made up his mind.

He stepped forward and smiled, all attention suddenly on him. He held his hand out to the woman with the knife, McCree’s hand holding tighter onto his shirt, before he realised what he was trying to do. He offered her his hand.

“You must be Alisa,” she eyed him like the dog had done, nostrils flaring, but after a moment the put the knife down, pressed it to the counter and wiped her hand on her apron before taking his palm. “I am Shimada Hanzo,” he bowed slightly, hand still grasped in his, “I hear you hit my brother with a pipe?”

She went red from ear to ear, like a lit match to kerosene, she could have been seen from space. He was surprised to see that her hair didn’t start to smoulder, momentary panic on her face. He heard McCree’s snicker, and pressed on, brazen with confidence.

“Don’t worry, I appreciate your efforts,” he smiled and winked like he’d seen McCree do, and she descended into a darker red, covering her mouth. He’d been a charming man once, he could manage it when he wanted to. He was older now, more jagged, but he was still capable of smiling, enjoying the way he could feel McCree’s gaze, watching him getting him out of a jam, saving his ass.

She held his hand between them and leaned around to see McCree.

“Lordy Jess,” her eyes impossibly hard for such a grin on her face, “what did you do to win this one?”

McCree surged forward, clapping him on the back, almost falling over him like he was a train just rolling out of the station.

“Pretty neat, ain’t he?”

…

Elena showed him where to put the bags, opened the curtains in the room he was to share with McCree. She brushed the perfect bedding flat over the double bed, switching off the lamp on the bedside table, and retreating back to the doorway. Her gestures of welcome were simple and deliberate, designed to make him feel comfortable in this space.

With the curtains open the room was light. It wasn’t cool, not yet, but it would be when the evening came. The architecture was designed to let go of the day, to slip into the night time like a body into a bath. He was ready for it, ready to be grateful when it came. He put the bags down by the bed, McCree’s on one side, his own on the other.

“We can put Jesse on the couch if you’d like, he’s slept on worse.”

She stood at the door, as though it was already more his space than hers. She gave him a part of this experience to control, to invite people into as though it had always been his. And he appreciated it, the way she stood at the threshold, yet to be invited in.

“No, it’s fine.” McCree was the first person to share a bed with him in years. Even if there were people he’d have sex with, he’d never stay, never ask them to stay. But he’d already gotten so used to having McCree within arm’s reach, used to hearing him breathing in the middle of the night. He remembered that first week at the Watchpoint, creeping into the med bay to check if he was still alive, check whether he was still well tended to, getting used to his calm features. It made him comfortable, and no matter what way he looked at it, having McCree nearby was becoming familiar.

He turned back to her, and she was already smiling at him.

“Okay then, well, we’ll get you fellas an extra towel and such.”

She spoke to him kindly from a distance, and their eyes were similar, hers and McCree’s.

“Thank you,” he tried to smile back at her, but all he wanted was to take her by the arm and implore her to understand how little he deserved her generosity. He wanted to explain how much he had taken, how irredeemable he found himself. He wanted to explain to her how sad McCree was, how much he had been hurt so that she could take care of him. So that she could do the job he felt so unqualified to do.

Instead she advanced on him, reached for him from the doorway. It was a gesture of trust, hand on his arm.

“Gabe told us what happened, that you were there.” She squeezed his forearm, crow’s feet around her eyes, “And I just wanted to say thank you. Thank you, thank you for getting him home.”

He stared at her. And for the third time that morning he got the feeling that he was treading water in well. And sooner or later his legs would give out. She was looking at him like someone tying a pebble to a helium balloon. These soft-hearted Americans were anchors to him, dragging him downwards. And he was left gasping for air, unable to think of anything true to say. She looked at him kindly.

“It’s okay,” she patted him, an expression meant to comfort on her face. “You don’t have to say anything. I just wanted you to know.”

He wanted to lie down.

…

Alisa circled him like a baffled predator approaching a prey that refused to flee. Here in the kitchen, it had always been her territory, here she could ask him anything. Give him a yard and a dog and he was the one in charge, but not here. He remembered that in their old house he’d do his homework at the kitchen counter instead of the table so that she could watch him while she cooked dinner.

And after he was done she’d look over his answers. If they were wrong she’d make him re-do them, if they were correct he’d get an extra serving of dinner. From her expression, he figured he’d get no more than an uncooked green bean to munch on. And he wanted to tell her that she was the first person he thought of when he’d started to realise what was being taken from him, he wanted her to know that he still heard her voice in his head.

Instead he stood with one hand in his pocket, leaning against the bench, eyes on the tiles. From across the kitchen, Alisa refused to look away and he refused to look up, stuck in a standoff.

There had been years when their relationship had been non-existent, years between periods emotion stability, years punctured by the mistakes he’d made, the ways he’d tried to make it up to her. Trying to say sorry for the pain he’d caused her. And he had no idea what she wanted of him anymore. She’d wanted him to join Overwatch, wanted him to do something good with his life, but she was looking at him like she wanted to lock him in the basement. Just like when he’d been in the gang, when he’d been broken. Like he was making mistakes again.

It was just that he’d always figured that when his luck finally ran out he’d be dead. Instead his bad luck came like a warning shot left ringing in his ears, pointing out all the things he still had to lose.

And Alisa could see it. She saw him, she saw him at his most broken, at his most vulnerable. When he crawled home to her, unable to tie up his own hair, incomplete, exhausted, and hungover, she saw him. But he tried to hold himself strong, like he could fake it. He presented all his wrong answers with his chest puffed out, resigned to a single serving like a dare.

The stalemate lasted until Elena walked in and he looked up, damn near collapsed into her arms. She was softer on him, always had been.

“Your friend is having a lie down in your room,” she murmured, but her eyes were more on Alisa that McCree, their partnership was clear, coming to stand beside each other at the opposite counter, elbows touching. Their eyes turned on him and he tried not to melt, tried to be older than the young man he’d been. And he’d missed them so much, missed them all the time, missed them like he missed New Mexico, like he missed the summer in the winter. But there were things that they had to say and there was nothing he could do to stop them except wish he’d thought to help Hanzo with the bags, to be asleep in the bed with him.

Instead he turned away, he couldn’t run, but he’d hear them out, try to keep from crumbling, trying to accept the weight of their grievances on his shoulders without covering his ears.

He could feel them watching him, and he could imagine how it would feel to be lying next to Hanzo right now, to be in a room where he had no excuses to offer.

From behind him, Alisa stepped forward, he heard her shoes on the floor.  

“What the fuck were you thinking, Jesse?”

Her words took him out at the knees.

_What the fuck were you thinking, Jesse? Why the fuck did you hit him, Jesse? What the fuck did you do? What the fuck do you mean you need bail money? What the fuck were you thinking, Jesse?_

And there was a golf ball in his throat, a hurricane beating against his ribcage, and he had no idea how to explain, no idea how to explain that it had just happened, that he’d never meant for to lose a part of him and lose it forever.

As he turned towards the sink he dropped the glass, it shattered on the floor, and he jumped, swore hard and sharp, and shrunk.

And suddenly he was standing in the corner of the kitchen with his shoulders up to his ears and his hand on his face, holding his breath because if he opened his mouth all that he’d be able to do was sob. He hadn’t realised seeing them would hurt so bad, seeing the way that they saw him. It was different than Gabe, different than Ana, they saw him in his entirety, from birth, had known him small and fresh faced, back when you could have scrubbed the imperfections form his skin. Not like now, not broken, violent, scarred, all of his fuck-ups built in, all of his fuck-ups refusing to leave him.

And he had no  _fucking_  idea how to make any of this easier, or better, or more palatable.

He hiccupped a sob, trying to breathe through it, eyes turned to the ceiling as though the stinging tears might sink back into him, as though they hadn’t already seen him cry before. He pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to hold it all in, tried to give his answers like he’d planned to, chest puffed out. And instead he was concave, head bowing down, staring at his page of mistakes, not knowing how to take them back, not knowing how to fix them.

They crept forward, stepping around the broken glass, reminding him of home, and how far he was from it. They embraced him, and he sucked in a ragged breath. They embraced him like he’d never left them, like he was nineteen again and still brand new.

“I’m sorry,” his voice came out of him like shrapnel, bursting from his mouth, unable to be contained, “I’m so sorry.”

They said nothing, but cradled him, arms around his torso, heads resting on his shoulders, stroking his hair. As though they knew how painful it was, how deeply he felt this failure.  

…

He’d heard the glass shatter from the hall, heard McCree swearing, but he was unprepared to see them standing there, amidst the glass shards, holding onto each other as he wept, hand across his eyes. McCree never seemed ill at ease when they were together, never came across like he was hiding something. But here, in this moment, he was raw. All of his stitches were undone. All of his wounds were open, unable to keep himself together for a single moment longer.

His chest rose and fell with his emotion, all overflowing out of him. Hanzo could see him trying desperately to pull himself together, the way that he held himself as rigid as he could in the arms of his sisters, trying to regain control. But even from the corridor, Hanzo could see that there was no controlling this brand of sorrow, he could only ride it out, let himself be comforted.

Hanzo listened to him apologise, his shuddering sighs, their murmured responses. Hanzo’s hand rested against the doorframe, and his heart ached, panic clawed into his throat seeing him like this, ready to do anything to take his pain away, to stop him crying. His breath was trapped in his chest, eyes skittish, teeth gritted, desperation bursting through him, desperate to stop this, knowing he didn’t deserve to have lost so much, knowing that out of everyone, McCree deserved pain the least.

He was beautiful, and good, and honest, and Hanzo had never met anyone like him, and he wished that there was something that he could do to alleviate this pain, hand twitching to do something, give him anything, McCree could have it all.

Instead he slunk back into the corridor, silent and unnoticed.

Because there was nothing that he could do, and there were things he wasn’t meant to see.

…

McCree had retreated to the porch out the back of the house after dinner, through the French doors, looking out into the fenceless yard, the sun was setting through the trees. When the light shed on the floor from the window turned pink and orange he was easy to locate, providing witness, acknowledging the day leaving like a bear keeping track of the seasons.

He sat in a cane chair, forward, elbow on his knee, eyes searching the trees for the dying light. And from the doors he looked tired, and empty of emotion, only lingering feelings distance and fatigue left to colour his eyes.

At dinner he’d been nothing but bouncy, his sisters bouncy with him, a charade carefully crafted, designed especially for their guest. Hanzo had tried his best to play along, laughing at their stories of childhood chivalry and misplaced affections, embarrassing reflections on the life they’d led, trying not to feel the quiet hurt that pooled in his belly. If this was they needed, then he would not disrupt it.

But here, as far as you could get from the dinner table, from where his sisters spoke in quiet voices, McCree was silent and unaccompanied.

His hand landed on McCree’s shoulder, and McCree had known he was there. He put on no mask, hardly bothered to flinch. Together they stared out into the trees, trying to feel the last of the light on the toes of their boots. McCree looked up at him, smoke rising from the cigarette in his hand and Hanzo took it when it was offered, sitting in the chair beside him, McCree already lighting another.

He was at his most beautiful in the early dawn and in the evening, he was best bathed in the colours of the sun. And Hanzo wanted so badly to reach out to him, to tuck his hair behind his ear. To embrace him, to do what he could.

He did nothing, but they sat together. And he had to remind himself that it was a victory just to do that. Thoughtless in the twilight, silent and unobtrusive. He was so aware of all that he could not provide, but to sit quietly with someone, to feel no need to fill the silence, to share a cigarette or two. It was more than he’d asked for in years.

McCree, cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, poured him the last of the sweet tea his sisters had served at dinner, though this time McCree took the flask from his breast pocket and doused it in enough whiskey to make the evening interesting, all his movements deliberate and slow. Hanzo raised the glass to his lips, watching McCree drink his own, eyes to the trees.

And he knew that McCree was tired, but he wanted to hear him talk. Talk like he usually did, open and honest, unscripted.

“Where are you from?”

McCree stilled, glass paused at his lips but not drinking, his eyes pointed forward. He raised an eyebrow out into the yard, not sparing him a glance. Hanzo watched him lower his glass, licking his lips, to wary to risk looking over and being seen himself.

“New Mexico, just north of the border. On the river… we had a ranch.”

Hanzo could have predicted that. What with the way that he spoke, the way that he acted, the freckles on his shoulders, in the way he weathered the sun. He was at home in it. Hanzo watched his face, blank, not able to put on any shows. But Hanzo just wanted to listen to him speak.

“How very American of you.”

And despite himself McCree laughed, canines poking out of his mouth, golden eyes taking on a bitter glimmer, almost himself again, taking a drag on his cigarette. He sat back and Hanzo watched his shoulders slacken. He was too exhausted to leave his defences up, and Hanzo knew that he liked to talk.

“I learned ta shoot ‘cause the rabbits were gettin’ into Alisa’s garden.”

He chuckled, so that McCree would know that he was grateful.

“A noble cause,” he gazed at the side of his face, his strong jaw, his tousled hair, he looked old, “I’m sure she was thankful.”

McCree smiled sadly.

“She raised me.” He closed his eyes briefly, sighing, exhaustion set on his features, sad and bittersweet. “Our folks died when I was six, she was eighteen. She sacrificed everything for me; everything I have, they gave.”

Hanzo reached across the table between them, hand landing on McCree’s shoulder, a familiar gesture of support.

“I am glad that she did.”

He wanted nothing more than McCree to feel better, for his melancholy to pass, but he knew better than most that there were stories you couldn’t outrun, debts you might never repay, apologies you might never give. All he could do was offer his shoulders, his hands, his support, the small comforts he had left in him. He could bare some weight, if McCree was tired, he could hold him up for a time, watch over him. It was what he had come to do.

McCree leaned into his hand and shot him a tired smile.

“Me too, darlin’, me too.”

He could feel the water rising in the well, and smiled back.

…

He knew it was a dream because McCree had both his arms. He stood on the balcony of Hanzo’s old apartment in the darkness. There were no lights beyond him, and no lights before him, he was a silhouette bathed in blue, elbow on the rail. Hanzo couldn’t see his eyes for the brim of his hat, his face blank. And standing there he was as foreign and as unfamiliar as a stranger wearing McCree’s hat and McCree’s face; a shell looking out into the void as though he could see beyond it. When Hanzo stepped from the abyss of the apartment to the island of the balcony, McCree turned his head toward him, his face unmoving and cold. Everything around him was cold.

The darkness was encompassing, and McCree gave him no greeting, no smile, Hanzo’s jacket hanging from his shoulders. Hanzo’s hand reached for him but the further he reached the further away McCree seemed to be. He stepped forward again and again, but never seemed to get any closer, McCree being drawn into the darkness, mouth grim and still.

“What are you doing?” The figure that looked like McCree asked, his voice flat, and nothing like that it should have been.

“I am trying to get to you,” Hanzo called, from the door to the rail, as though there were canyons between them, hands reaching forward. Before he could take a breath of air so cold it froze his throat McCree’s hand reached back, fingers wrapping around his wrist and ripping him forward and off his feet. McCree’s skin was always so warm, like he carried his sunshine with him when he entered the shadows, like he stored it deep in his core. But the hand that wrapped around him burnt him with ice, as though his fingers were carved from stone, rigid around him.

Even pulled close for an instant he still couldn’t see McCree’s eyes, couldn’t wrangle any smile out of him. And he yearned for it to be normal, longed to be smiled at, for the sun to be setting or rising somewhere, for colour to return. But instead, this person that wasn’t McCree thrust him into the darkness, taking him by the collar like he weighed nothing at all and throwing them both over the rail, plunging down in to the deep, dark ocean below.

Waves crashed over his head and the chill reached down into his bones, cold water sucked into his lungs. The figure that wasn’t McCree floated next to him as he sank, hand clamped around his hand so tight that it hurt, dragging them downwards. As Hanzo struggled in his grip, fighting to reach the surface, he was still and unbreathing, hat somehow still on his head, eyes hidden.

“There is no getting away from this,” the figure that wasn’t McCree told him, hair floating in the darkness, voice as clear as on dry land. “You will drown.”

…

He awoke when McCree pulled the sheet around him, and he was launched from one world to another, gasp stuck in his throat, heartbeat in his ears. He could feel his hands shaking, teeth chattering with a cold that wasn’t there.

“S’alright now,” McCree slurred, breath on his ear, voice bleary. Arm were moving around him, pulling him into the cavern McCree made of his body. The figure in his dream had been so distant, so untouchable, but here, McCree was warm against his cool skin, “I got you now, darlin’.” The accent was back, and it spoke to him on his deepest level. McCree’s one arm wound around him, pulling at his waist, Hanzo’s nose level with his collarbone. He could feel a soft breeze on his shoulder, McCree adjusting around him, holding them together like he was made of twine.

Hanzo rested his forehead on McCree’s chest, swallowing and settling, and felt soft fingers stroking his hair, cooing to him sleepily in the darkness. He could think nothing clear except that there was no hand he was more grateful for, there was no presence he would prefer. His own arms moved to hold onto McCree’s torso, to feel his heat, to touch him and not have him pulled away.

In the daylight, there was no part of him that could relax in another person’s arms, but in the night time, wrapped up in the cool sheets and the strong arm of a man whom he trusted, bordering on sleep, it felt good. Relief filled him. Relief that McCree was still there, that he was still kind and clear and unreserved. He was comforted and soothed, fingers weaving through his hair, Hanzo’s hand on his waist, idly tracing the scars he knew were there.

Hanzo listened to McCree’s breathing deepen, his arm loosening around him, all defences down, curtain calls on all his charades. He was unguarded and Hanzo could feel him slipping back to sleep with his arms around him. As though this was thoughtless. And there was nothing Hanzo could do but relax, every part of him turning soft and harmless, every effort McCree made to calm him working just like it was meant to. There was nothing to keep him alert, the fear melted out of him. He let the breeze take him, the cool sheet, the warm presence, McCree’s smell of whiskey and sweet tea.

And he was gone.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen, you can pry Hanzo responding to McCree crying and being sad with just baffled rage out of my cold dead hands. 
> 
> Like, McCree weeps and Hanzo is just in the corner with his fists raised, steam coming out of his ears, hella dangerous aura, being like: Who the fuck hurt him? Who was it? Raise your goddamn hand, fucker. 
> 
> And when it's like, mourning of a limb and an existential sense of dread for his family and homesickness for his childhood, Hanzo's just standing there, squinting, like: How... how do I fist fight the concept of loneliness in an alley? 
> 
> So yeah.


	9. Valuable To Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a. Long boi.
> 
> And this is it with like, bits cut out and stuff, this is it whittled down.
> 
> Also, get ready for some idiot pining, cause thats all this chapter is.

When the dawn came McCree untangled himself, and Hanzo felt him go.

He withdrew his arms, his chest, the warmth that came off him, taking Hanzo’s hand from his waist and laying it carefully on the bed where he’d been. He readjusted until Hanzo’s head was back on his own pillow, tucking his hair behind his ear, knuckles grazing his cheek, fingers light. He pulled the sheet up his shoulder, the mattress moving as he stood. He took one step away and he was already so distant, so far from him. In an instant.

Hanzo opened his eyes to watch him move around the room, quiet and careful, trying to get a button down over his shoulders, cursing softly. Hanzo watched him rummage through his bag, finding his hat and cigarettes, readying himself for the sunrise. He was so charming to look at, so steady and calm that Hanzo could imagine watching him for decades, watching him trying not to lose his balance while he pulled on his boots, watching him press his hat to his head, yawning, stretching, waking. Something small and quiet stirred in his chest, something that called to him, something he’d spent years trying to eradicate, something that came back to life at the sight of McCree.

Hanzo watched him from the bed, loneliness filling him as McCree slipped through the door as quietly as he could.  

He rolled onto his back, listening to his quiet footsteps move around the house, from the dog’s dance around his feet to the sound of the coffee grinder. He listened to McCree amble through the French doors and onto the porch, the creak of the chair as he sat. The inescapable little sounds heard through thin walls and the open window. He heard the strike of the lighter, the floorboards shifting, he could imagine him moving as it was happening, cigarette dangling from his bottom lip, lighter set down on the table. All those mornings on the bench and he could recreate McCree from memory, his habits, the way he sipped his coffee, smoked his cigarettes, held his shoulders, tipped his hat. He was imbedded in him, written on the inside of his eyelids, all the little details.

And it terrified him.

It terrified him how much time he spent thinking about leaving, intricately planning the steps of his escape, never managing to take the first one, all his sense leaving him the second McCree glanced his way. Always committed to leaving tomorrow, leaving the day after that, just a few more moments, a few more cigarettes, just a little longer. He’d made promises after all, to watch over him while he recovered, promised to get him back from Portugal, to keep him safe. _Back in four days, ya hear?_ And there were always more promises McCree might need him making, more things he might need him doing.

He didn’t know how he was going to get back to the person he’d been before, live the way that he’d lived. How he was supposed to go out on his own, feel content with an apartment and a dinner on weekends. How he was supposed to bury back into the shadows, sit with the silence after hearing McCree’s laugh so often. How could he enjoy a balcony, or a cigarette ever again and not have to sit with the sicking sense of loss that filled him?

And he wished that he’d known, known how far he’d fall, how attached he get. He should have known not let it happen, should have known that he was soft hearted at his centre, that every cigarette, every invitation, every gesture of comfort, was a trap. The more he struggled the tighter the grasp, the more distance he put between them the more he wanted to close it. And he should have known to resist this. From that first night, he should have gotten him a wheelchair instead of pressing him to his side, should have slept on the floor, left the second he was back in safe hands. Shouldn’t have let McCree come along and remind him of how living was done.

And now, here he was, unable to remove himself, unable to escape the closing walls.

Drowning.

…

The morning light filtered into the yard from between the trees, cigarette between his lips, and he watched it with a harsh sense of doom twinging in his belly.

The morning had arrived like a slow-motion car crash, blooming slowly, finding himself lying all wrapped up with him, heavy with sleep, realising that the warmth he could feel was Hanzo asleep against him, that the breath he could feel was his breath; that in the night he’d wrapped his arm around him. From the depths of his sleepiness, awoken by gasping grunts, thrashing limbs, it had seemed sensible, seemed like the one thing he could do to mitigate the darkness; hold onto him, give him the assurance that he was guarded, he was taken care of.

But in hindsight, he had precisely no idea what he’d been thinking. _What the fuck were you thinking, Jesse?_ What the fuck was he thinking? That was some inappropriate behaviour right there, that was some bullshit right there. That was some asking for trouble shit right there, that was wading into the fucking quicksand, no regard for the fact that he was already in too deep.

He raked an anxious hand through his hair, hat on his knee.

He wished he could go back to those few moments, just before he’d been awake, when all he’d been able to smell was cherry blossoms, slowly recognising that the weight he could feel was Hanzo curled against him. He wished he could go back to when he’d only been awake enough to know that it was good, that waking up all tangled together had felt right, natural to bury his nose in his hair, feeling his breath, slow and glacial, soft contentment in his chest. Before the rest of his brain had caught up and the sense of doom had settled over him like a cloud rolling over the sun he’d been bathing in.

He’d been a fool to think he’d even been at all capable of keeping his distance, taking a harsh drag on his cigarette, cursing himself for not being better than that. He didn’t know what Hanzo could need, but it sure as shit wasn’t him fucking up their relationship.

By the time Hanzo appeared at the door, the sun was making its claim on the garden, the line of the light just reaching over the clothesline, making its way towards the veranda, the shadows of the trees making patterns on the wood. Hanzo’s ambled over, jaw raised, and his expression blank. He always looked like it was a coincidence that they ended up here, together, always arriving at the bench like he’d been brought by the tides, led by the winds, to meet McCree in the dawn like he did.

He was dressed for the day, sitting down on his chair, not looking at him. McCree twitched to greet him, to grin like he did when he was nervous, to call him some name, hope he wouldn’t snap. But he kept his mouth closed, pressed his lips together and averted his eyes, knowing that a small, insecure part of him would be hurt if Hanzo decided to compensate for vulnerability with hostility. He knew that his snarl could take him out at the knees better than most, and he had no sake left offer.

Instead he offered the cigarette, nudged his coffee towards him, tried to compel him to stay, to forgive him, not to run from him. He’d never been anything but soft hearted, never anything but hopeful, harmless, well intentioned. Hanzo said nothing, but he took what he was offered, face blank, like it was just another morning, like nothing had changed. As if McCree couldn’t still feel him breathing, still feel him shifting in his sleep. He didn’t know what it was, couldn’t give it a name, but it wasn’t _friendship_ , it wasn’t being friends.

McCree watched him take a drag on the cigarette like it was keeping him alive, coffee cup taken and rested on his knee.

Hanzo said nothing, didn’t acknowledge it, didn’t push him away, just continued on. As though this was regular. It filled him with relief, his eyes drifting back to the yard.

“Gonna be a hot one today,” he found himself muttering, rubbing at his beard. Hanzo offered the cigarette back to him, blowing smoke out of the corner of his mouth. McCree loved the way that Hanzo held his cigarettes, pinched between his thumb and forefinger, like a gangster.

“It was a hot one yesterday,” he said.  

McCree chuckled and took the cigarette.

“We didn’t have the river yesterday, could take lunch.”

Hanzo nodded in his periphery.

“I see no problem with that.”

McCree laughed.

...

The three of them set into the morning like there was a deadline, like they could feel the oncoming heat in their bones. It was in the morning that the sweet tea got made, the peaches roasted. They swung around the kitchen, determined and purposeful, McCree standing at the stove top, wooden spoon in hand. His sisters gave had given him things to stir, had him wiping down the counter top at the drop of a hat, dressing the peach faces in sugar and honey, anything he could do one handed.

They were trying to comfort him, in their own quiet way. As clumsy as it was sincere.

Hanzo stood at the counter, chopping vegetables, McCree’s coffee nearby enough that he was anchored, and it was more peace than he was deserving of, the warm kitchen, the steady, gentle work. The sound of the knife hit the board in a perfect rhythm, a sort of muscle memory coming back to him after years of eating out of restaurants and take-away containers. He felt content and competent, filled with a sort of short-sighted warmth, uncurbed by his anxiety, impossible to dispel. There was some part of him, some weak-willed centre that insisted that no matter how the ending came, there was joy to be had in this moment, joy to be had in the peace of this kitchen.

Alisa and Elena made conversation in the background, and he listened to them leave after a moment of indecision, to search for a picnic blanket. He set apart the already chopped vegetables, scooping them into a bowl for later. The kitchen was silent except for the tune McCree hummed to himself and the strike of the knife; a kind of music, in its own way, McCree swaying gently over a pot of caramel, consulting no recipe.

He’d known few more horrifying instances of bliss than waking up, able to feel McCree’s face resting on his hair, his breathing on his scalp, held in his arms. Like he was small, harmless, like he had never been deadly once in his life. And it had been such a close comfort, that he would have allowed none other to give. As he’d listened to McCree waking up around him, a sort of longing had filled his chest, forehead against his collarbone, listening to him breathing. Longing for a life he’d failed to live, longing to call this pair of safe arms his own, longing to roll him onto his back and kiss him slow and sleepy, make real this feeling in his chest, straddle his hips and make him his. Properly. So that there could be no question, no hesitation, just to know where they both stood. Together.

The knife made a steady slice through a pepper, again and again.

When he thought of it, McCree wouldn’t startle at his touch, wouldn’t stiffen, would touch him, kiss him back, as though they’d been doing this forever, nothing unfamiliar, nothing foreign. He could imagine so vividly the way his hair would look against McCree’s skin, all bent over him, the contrast of black to honey. He could imagine the way his eyelashes would flutter, where his hand might come to rest at hip, fingers under his shirt, reaching upwards-

He let out a sharp hiss, knife clattering onto the counter, blood sprouting from his thumb. Instinctively he took a shaking step back, fighting the desire to wrap the sudden stinging source of pain in the nearest available fabric, even if that happened to be his good white shirt. He pressed his palm to the wound, baring his teeth at it, feeling the blood making a slippery surface of his skin. 

“Fuck, Hanzo, what are ya doin’ to yourself?”

McCree reached for him, whipping the tea towel from his shoulder, and wrapping it around his clasped hands in a half second flat. His eyebrows were drawn together, fingers tightening around his hands, the firm gesture of a man who’d known blood loss, who’s instinct had become pressure over delicacy, concerned expression on his face.

“Do you think it’s deep?”

Sometimes McCree could render him speechless, his soft eyed look, his gentle devotion. Hanzo felt his cheeks getting warm, thinking of what he’d been thinking of, of McCree’s hands on him.

“It’s fine,” he muttered, feeling the blood on his hands, refusing to meet his earnest eyes. McCree grunted in disapproval, hand fluttering over the tea towel, making sure he was securely wrapped before his eyes darted away. 

“There should be a first aid kit somewhere ‘round here.” 

Hanzo watched him throw cupboard doors open around the kitchen, wanting to tell him not to worry about it, that his caramel would surely burn without his attention, but the words were stuck in his throat.

McCree hadn’t mentioned the way they’d woken up, its implications, this recent closeness. But that only made his longing roar up harder in his throat, hot and flushed, longing to reach back to him, put his arms around him. Instead he stood, torn somewhere between wanting to launch himself out the window and wanting to lean into his touch, wanting to chase his hand, take the comfort he offered. He longed to touch him, to be touched by him, crowd him against the counter, longed not to be lying by the time they went back through the border, to be as familiar with each other’s hips and skin as they had pretended to be.

Somehow, they managed to wrap his thumb, stop the bleeding with only two good hands out of four, huddled in the kitchen, putting his skin back together. McCree washed the blood that had run down his wrist and over his palm with a wet cloth, treating him tenderly, his heart hammering in his throat, unable to imagine anything but all the things he’d like to do to him. 

…

Exhaustion took him in the afternoon, his stomach full, two beers worth of pleasant warmth in his belly, heart still. They’d laid out an old rug on the river bank, eaten a lunch of salsa and bread, cheese and crackers, sweet tea and beer. Half the roasted peaches, a scoop of ice cream for each of them, and he could still taste it hours later. Hanzo had sat cross legged beside him, making his sisters laugh with a hand gesture and a dry word or two, magnificent and pleased with himself, the soft sunlight filtering through the leaves onto his features. After they were done, they’d slipped into the water, his arm wrapped up in cling film to keep it dry, Hanzo watching from the shore. But he hadn’t lasted long before the exhaustion had come to sit heavy on his shoulders and he’d found himself yawning.  

Sometimes he spent hours pacing his room at the Watchpoint, sometimes all he dreamt was violence and death and the things he’d failed to protect, sometimes it felt as though he wouldn’t sleep for days, unable to settle, unable to relax. But here, in the countryside with Hanzo and his girls, he snoozed every place that he sat.

Elena had found him by the river, halfway submerged on a deck chair, sunk deep into a cool slumber. All he remembered was her saying that she was going to swim downstream, and by the time he woke she was back and Hanzo was gone from where he’d been lying on their rug. He was alone and hardly able to keep his eyes open. It was like his body had remembered what it was to need sleep, had remembered that there was a dawn on its way and he had time to make up, yawning at every opportunity.

But he’d kept that to himself, not wanting her to think he slept badly at base.

She’d helped him up the stairs of the riverbank to the house, told him that if he wanted to sleep there was a perfectly good bed for that, ceiling fan and all. He’d at least had the sense to change out of his wet clothes before collapsing, spread out flat on top of the covers, Elena gone to find the others, rubbing her hair dry with a towel. She’d been picturesque in the doorway, the concept of his childhood, so far in the past sometimes he couldn’t see it unless she was there. He’d slept the moment his head hit the pillow.

From somewhere deep in his sleep, he heard the bedroom door open, heard quiet footsteps. He couldn’t force his eyes to open, so heavy, so exhausted, but even from the pit of sleep, he knew it couldn’t be anyone he didn’t trust. There was some muttering, a few steps here and there, before a hand landed on his back, warm and still, resting on his skin.

“McCree,” a voice came smooth and steady from above, “You will miss the sunset if you keep sleeping like this.”

His eyes fluttered open, blinking the blur from his vision, turning his head. And there he was, hair tied over his shoulder, the ribbon tickling his back, bent over the bed. His eyes were shaped like almonds, McCree had never noticed that before. He smiled up at him, hardly able to think anything but that he was pleased to see him, always pleased to see him.

Hanzo’s eyes narrowed, withdrawing, his fingers lifting from his skin. It was almost imperceptible, but his touch almost seemed to linger, just for a moment. McCree convinced himself he’d imagined it as he sat up, feet to the floor, rubbing at his face and yawning. He was glad to have not yet missed the sunset, but it still felt as though he had so much sleep to get through before he was full and rested.

He felt Hanzo come back to him, back to the bedside, hand reaching out for where his arm had been, trusty switch blade in hand, always in his back pocket. Strong fingers wrapped around what was left of his upper arm and he heard the sing of the blade jumping forth.

“Don’t move,” Hanzo murmured, as though McCree didn’t automatically still whenever Hanzo put his hands on him. McCree felt the blade against his skin, running carefully under the cling film he’d forgotten to remove, cutting it away. Not even needing to be asked, he never needed to be asked; not to do up his shirt buttons, not to chop the vegetables, not to take the cap off his beer before he handed it to him.

Beside him, Hanzo wrapped his arm in the bandages they’d brought with them, muttering about how good the wound was doing, bandaging him the same way they’d done him in the kitchen. McCree liked to think they cared for each other, in a quiet sort of way. Things seemed to only get more and more complicated, but it was the most well-intentioned train wreak he’d seen in a while.

He rubbed at his chest, bits of his brain still asleep.

“You should call me Jesse,” his voice came out softer than he’d intended, came out like he was thirty years older than he was. Hanzo’s hands froze on him, and when McCree looked up at him he was staring back like he’d suggested they elope. “Everyone here is called McCree.” For a moment Hanzo was so motionless McCree feared he might dive through the open window, anything to get away from him. But he held his ground and frowned in a way that was almost like softening, brow furrowing. McCree’s eyes didn’t leave him.

“Jesse then.”

Jesse smiled up at him as he returned to the bandages, face expressionless and hard.

“Thanks.”

“It is no problem.”

…

They’d strung fairy lights up in the trees, dragged the cane chairs and sofa down from the porch, and sat them around a fire pit in the yard. They’d eaten dinner on the grass, cooler full of drinks. Jesse had eaten like there was a time limit, scooping chilli into his mouth, his sisters watching him fondly, and the moment Hanzo had taken his first spoonful he understood, a myriad of tastes and textures filling him; sour cream and tomato, chilli and beans, spicy and sweet. Yesterday’s dinner had been a traveller’s dinner, quick to eat and quick to bed. But on their last night Jesse’s girls had pulled out all the stops.

The food was designed to stay with you for the months ahead of cafeteria trays and mushy peas from a can, a sort of celebration.

And after dinner, after the dishes, they returned to the fire pit, to the cane furniture out there on the lawn, like birds returning to a nest. Jesse bounced down next to him, drunk and jovial, arm over his shoulder, sides pressed together. There were two other seats he could have sat on, a respectful distance away, but instead he pulled Hanzo into a tight embrace, and rattled on to Elena. Perhaps if Hanzo drunk less, if he’d been less heavy with food, if Jesse side hadn’t been so warm, he would have pushed him away, found some excuse to keep his distance. But he couldn’t help the way he leaned into the fantasy, took advantage of the closeness they shared, a kind of self-indulgent self-destruction, pretending that this could be shrugged off, ignored. He let Jesse embrace him, cheeks pink with alcohol.

Elena laughed from across the fire pit, lit up by the flames, curled up in one of the cane chairs, her sister next to her.

“No, no, I’m serious,” Jesse’s arm gestured around him, hooking around his neck so that he could indicate his wonderment. “And he just looks me up and down, sees everythin’, and just says, _‘give me your keys.’_ ” Jesse imitated him with spaces between his words, trying to annunciate all his syllables, deepening his voice. “And off we go, just like that. I thought we were gonners for sure.”

Elena was leaning forward in her chair, eager for the rest of the story. Hanzo let it happen, dull with beer and a full belly.

“Next thing I know, he’s gotten us to this dingy little hotel and he’s dumpin’ me in the bathtub like an unloved sack o’ potatoes.” Hanzo drank from the beer bottle he’d been given to hide his smile. He liked the way Jesse spoke about him, liked the way he said nothing untrue, nothing elaborated, but his eyes sparkled, glimmered in the fire light, making sure that everyone saw the same fireworks that he did, saw the same beauty and adventure.

Hanzo gazed at his profile, at his soft hair in the low light, the way his mouth curled as he laughed, all teeth. He glowed here, he was so happy, tipsy and joyous. Surrounded by love, love for others and the love that they felt for him. Hanzo could see it in the efforts his girls had made to put this together, the dinner, the fire, the booze. All of it was for him. So that he would know that he was loved when he left, that he was going to be missed.

When he looked back to the group Alisa was there, eyes reflecting the flames, looking only at him, one leg crossed over the other. And they were like chess players sitting across from each other, trying to figure out if Jesse was the prize or the pawn. She wanted to know what he was doing here, what the point of him was, why he had attached himself to her little brother. And he wanted to tell her, wanted to explain, about the debts he owed, about the vows he’d taken, but instead he looked away.

He could see her assuming something, deducing something from the way Jesse’s thumb stroked his shoulder, the way they sat all pressed together, the way they slept in the same bed, the way he volunteered to be the one to wake him, reapply his bandages. He knew what it looked like. And there was a part of him that wanted it, wanted her to think that he was capable of that sort of affection, that Jesse was his to touch, his to indulge in.

He didn’t let his eyes drift back to her, but placed his hand on Jesse’s knee, letting her believe it, letting her see that her little brother was a soft spot to him, something he’d protect if he could. Hoped that she’d trust that.

“And then he just leaves me there, to stitch myself up. _“I’ll leave you to it,”_ he says.”

Elena looked to Hanzo, enthusiastic, seeking verification, clarification, elaboration. Anything for his participation in the story, because it was his as well. Hanzo could only shrug.

“I thought that if I left him be he might go out the bathroom window. Needless to say, he did not.”

Elena and Jesse laughed together, and he smiled, outward and brave. Jesse squeezed him, lopsided grin on his face, happy and drunk. It made warmth bloom in his belly whenever Jesse smiled at him.

“Aw, well it wasn’t your fault, darlin’. You didn’t know you liked me then.”

And Hanzo wished he could live in this moment. Every part of him that loved this he hated, but he couldn’t deny it. His belly was full, his heart was light, and he was sinking into the warmth. He had no idea how they lived like this, how they accumulated the resources to make such beauty, how they felt so safe. Every day it felt like maybe his time was up, maybe today was the day for all the beautiful things to turn against him. But they lived like there was no storm on the horizon, like every day was a day for outdoor eating.

And Jesse’s arm around him refused to move, and Elena was laughing, and Alisa had looked away from him, soft smile on her lips he leaned further into Jesse. He smiled into the flames of the fire, moving his thumb across Jesse’s knee and deciding that he was going to get very drunk.

…

“You know the one,” Elena was leaning over to him, chair dragged around to his side of the sofa so that they wouldn’t have to yell over the dying fire. He could feel the beer and the whiskey he’d stolen from Jesse’s breast pocket running through his blood stream. He was so warm. “It’s on his ribs, the one that looks like a tiger went after him with a tunin’ fork.” She grinned, and he nodded. Yes, he knew the one, had touched it during the night, dreamt of touching it more. “You wanna know how he got that?”

“Of course, go ahead,” he gestured for her to go on, smiling, the world so pleasant, so hazy, flickering at the edges. He was docile, all loose and calm. He’d killed men, lead his father’s empire, taken so much from so many, but here he was contented, and getting drunker, just like he’d planned. Her eyes didn’t leave him.

“It was a car bomb, a hub cap splintered and slashed right through him, told me later he was sure he was going to die.” He was slow to realise what she was saying, slow to understand, but a sickly feeling crawled under his skin, wedged into Jesse’s side. Elena continued without him as he felt horror dawn on his face. “But he dragged himself back to the Watchpoint they’d set up in the city. Hands and knees, refused to die, decided to survive.” He felt his hand tighten around Jesse’s knee, the feeling tightening in his belly, like he was going to be taken from him, taken from him before Hanzo had been there to protect him.

Elena’s eyes turned back to the fire, mouth turned in a grim line.

“He still thinks it’s up to him. Whether he survives, if he gets back to us.” She stared into the flames, her face lit up. “I think about that a lot,” she murmured, eyebrows drawn together.

Hanzo leaned towards her, his mind swimming, knowing only that he’d do anything to rid himself of this feeling.

“He is very valuable to me,” he whispered, words like melting wax pouring out of him and loosing form.

She nodded, understanding.

“Good.”

And he was glad she knew, glad that she would know that he would do everything in his power to keep car bombs from her brother; that when Jesse’s legs gave out, Hanzo would carry him. He rested his head on Jesse’s chest, revelling in the feeling of proximity, intimacy, knowing that he would take up any weapon to protect this moment. He would be his most wrathful self to preserve this beauty.

He drank more.

…

Hanzo hummed beneath his arm.

“Yeah,” he said, eyes closed, head not lifting from his shoulder. Jesse ran his fingers though his hair as he thought. The girls had left them at some point, gone to bed, but he was having trouble keeping track of time. Elena had patted his shoulder as she’d sauntered past, but it could have been years ago. It could have been decades since he’d started leaning his cheek on Hanzo’s hair. “But there’s more beauty to a bow,” Hanzo stroked his knee, words slow and meaningless.

Jesse hummed, briefly burying his nose into his hair, searching for the cherry blossoms. It was so blissful to be so close to him, to feel his body against his side. It was a beautiful thing to feel Hanzo’s head on his shoulder, so trusted he was. Jesse breathed in deeply, tired, happy. He ran his knuckles against Hanzo’s cheekbone.

“We should probably get to bed, sweetheart,” he didn’t move at all, “it’ll get cold soon.”

“Yeah,” Hanzo didn’t move either. When he was drunk, he said “yeah” instead of “yes”. Jesse liked that. He couldn’t say how long they stayed there, unable to muster the energy to move. But he felt nothing except gentle euphoria.

…

Without his head to support him, Jesse’s head lolled onto his chest. Hanzo stood over him, hand buried in his shirt.

“Jesse,” He relished any opportunity to say it, “Jesse, it is time to go now.” It was so lovely in his mouth; it sat in his belly, flat and honest. _Jesse._

“Okay, okay,” Jesse was laughing at him, head rolling around on his neck. Drunk too much Hanzo suspected, even more than he had. But he offered his one hand and Hanzo took it, trying to keep them from falling backwards into the fire. He hauled Jesse upwards and found his nose buried in his throat, arm clamped around his waist. He had such a lovely smell, wood smoke and whiskey, but sweet like roasted peaches and honey.

Hanzo couldn’t drag himself away, not in the state he was in. He should have stepped back, should have supported them to bed from a distance. But instead he closed his eyes against Jesse’s chest and tried to breathe deeply, tried to memorise the way his skin felt. He could hear Jesse’s steady heartbeat, felt his stubble against his cheek, leaning down to rock their heads together. Jesse laid his forehead against Hanzo’s shoulder as if he couldn’t be bothered to hold himself upright anymore; their hands still linked by their sides.

“Jesse,” he muttered, his body heavy against him. “You are drunk.” He was such a large form, broad shoulders, long legs, strong chest. A man designed to go and go and go. Hanzo swayed them gently. And he’d never in his life been soothing, nobody had ever found him comforting. But Jesse trusted him, swaying with him, almost dancing.

And it would have been so easy to kiss him, to ruin them both. The skin of his throat was so close to his mouth, Hanzo’s hands already so close to the hem of his flannel and the warm flesh beneath. There would be no violence in it, slow and patient because he didn’t have the energy for more, only the shivers he might coax out, the feeling of his lips on Jesse’s skin, muscles relaxing into his touch. In his mind they’d sleep on the couch, they’d never get cold, in his mind he’d find his lips at Jesse’s throat, find his hands under his shirt, getting aquatinted with his skin in the soft warmth of the dying fire. In his mind it was easy, it was beautiful; in his mind Jesse touched him back.

But that was only fantasy and dangerously close to taking advantage, Jesse’s breath against his ear, making him shiver. Jesse hit all of his sensitive points without even knowing, just by standing close to him, eliciting responses Hanzo shouldn’t have allowed to foster. Jesse’s chest moved as he breathed in and out against him, his eyelashes ghosting over his skin as his eyes slipped closed, the pressure growing in him, desire, lust, and longing, some combination of the three. And it would have been so easy to push him back down into the pillows, to crawl over him, to run his hands through his hair, finally get some release.

But there would be no forgiveness to run his hands down his chest, no forgiveness for fucking up the first friendship he’d had in years, there would be no getting away fast enough. It was for the best that these things went unchanged, for the best that they danced by the fireside to unheard music, arms turning around each other. He knew that this had to end, that it had to come crashing down eventually, he could already hear the cracks. And he couldn’t keep dragging out the decent, maintaining the status quo for as long as he could. He knew that it would hurt when this ended, when he left, that it would tear him apart, but at least he got to feel Jesse in his arms, drunken and peaceful in the summertime. At least there was the now.

He guided them to bed, Jesse affectionate at his side, laughing into his ear, soft and harmless, got his head to the pillow before he passed out on his back. And Hanzo could only stand above him, trying to come to terms with what he was going to do, the distance he was going to introduce. A coldness settled on him, and he could imagine how it would happen, how the hotel room would feel when he left it. He wouldn’t unpack his bag when they arrived, would sleep in his clothes, and when Jesse was asleep, he’d leave. And he’d write a note, nothing honest, but he’d hope that Jesse kept it. He was already hoping that Jesse would keep it.

Hanzo ran an idle hand over his cheek, and it was impossible to feel anything at all. 

“Tomorrow night,” he whispered, “I will leave you.”

All things had to end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alisa and Elena making eye contact over the fire: Boyfriend? Boyfriend. 
> 
> Hanzo: No turning back now, might as well cuddle. Fuck it. Nothing I can do. Bummer. 
> 
> McCree, oblivious: What. The fuck. NICE.


	10. Dragons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AH, so, yeah. Editing this chapter was emotionally draining, but I think it had to do more with my emotions that the actual material. Important deliberation right there. 
> 
> Also, at the end of this chapter there's some violence and some not nice swearing. Sorry. My bad. 
> 
> Proceed.

Jesse groaned, all wrapped up in their sheets, curling against the bed as he woke, forehead meeting Hanzo’s knee from where he sat cross-legged beside him. Hanzo turned a page of his book, as if this whole time he’d been reading. As though moments before he hadn’t allowed his fingertips to dance consolations over Jesse’s palest freckles, sweeping his hair away from his eyes, letting his familiarity show for the few minutes just before he joined him in the morning.

Jesse buried his face into his pillow.

“Christ, darlin’,” Jesse’s voice sounded like scrap metal, muffled, more gravel than sound. “I think m’dead.” Hanzo hummed, trying to act as though he hadn’t woken up with his nose pressed into the nape of Jesse’s neck, arms clamped around his waist, bodies pressed together, all parallel lines. Trying to look as though he hadn’t woken up pressing his groin into Jesse’s ass, grinding into him, mouth pressed into the skin of his shoulder, wanton and depraved. As though he hadn’t fled to the shower in horror.

Hanzo rubbed at his face.

“That seems unlikely,” he muttered, no energy for comfort.

Jesse groaned and rolled away from him. He’d thrown off his shirt somewhere in the night, taken off his belt where Hanzo hadn’t had the courage to do so. Hanzo watched him sit up on his side of the bed, his skin still as honeyed and sweet as the night before, the muscles of his back moving as he did, Hanzo gazing over his shoulder blades, the gentle curve of his spine. But Jesse could do nothing but remind him of all the reasons to leave, nothing compelled him more than his own instinct to kneel behind him and kiss the tension from his shoulders.

He pushed his eyes back down, filled with loss, in mourning for something he hadn’t even lost yet.

He tried to tell himself that he wasn’t losing anything, that what he was doing was giving it away, giving it back. That this was the choice he had to make, that all he should be was grateful to have had it at all. All he could do was try to savour it, try to come to terms with it. Try to understand that there was no kissing him, no running his hands over him, not when the day came, when they were both sober, even if it clawed at him wrong, sat weighty in his ribs to be leaving this, he could only brace for the pain that was to come.

Jesse looked over his shoulder at him, half a snarl on his face, no bite to it.

“You won’t say that when your brother’s weepin’ at my funeral.”

Hanzo just hummed in response, all he could manage.

Jesse stood, stretching out his shoulders, arms above his head, going up on to the tips of his toes. Hanzo stared, he couldn’t help himself, watching his body move, his belly, the small of his back, his ribs, his shoulders. A hot flushed feeling shivered through him, swallowing thickly and turning a page even though his eyes were only on Jesse as he stumbled from the bedside to the bathroom, scooping his shirt off the floor. Hanzo had touched himself in the shower to get rid of this feeling, starting off determined not to think of Jesse, to think of literally anyone else. And yet, it had all dissolved into him anyway; into his hands, his grin, his skin, his nails, his hair, a flurry of beauty. Blinded by his own imagination, his hand had wrapped around his cock imagining Jesse in a thousand states of undress, imagining him on top of him, imagining him below him, a thousand different interpretations of his skin.

He’d come into one hand, the other clamped over his mouth to keep his voice down, breathing hard and ragged against the tiles, going from the euphoria of release to self loathing in a half second flat, cursing himself for letting it come to this.

Jesse disappeared behind the bathroom door, reappearing with a toothbrush hanging out his mouth a second later, hair pushed away from his temples, beard becoming unkempt, a scruffy man.

Hanzo couldn’t find it within himself to smile, but he tried to memorise the shape of his shoulders, the shape of his hips, jeans hanging off him, rubbing his eyes, his whole-body sloping. Hanzo watched him from the bed and tried to feel clear. Tried to imagine what this moment might feel like in a year, what colour it would take months after he left Jesse in their hotel room. He could only hope that it would get rosy with age, that he’d look back on this as just another brief love affair with life, just another beauty he couldn't live with.

“Whatcha lookin’ at me like that for?”

And he wanted to explain that there was a deadline for looking at him, that his time was finite, and he wanted to look for as long as he could. Soak in this feeling, hungover, wrapped up in sheets, looking at Jesse. But instead he looked back down to his book, shoulders squared for the day to come.

“You have a chilli stain down your front.”

“Aw, fuck.”

Not long now, he thought to himself.

…

They took turns kissing his forehead and telling him he was a good boy. Hanzo averted his eyes and packed the car, shoulders forward, just trying to last till evening. They were more affectionate than his family had ever been, embracing a constant affirmation of love, holding onto each other by their fingernails, refusing to drift apart. The same way he’d held onto Genji.

Jesse was wearing that nice red flannel, leaning down to his sisters, so that their lips could reach him. They pretended that they had never changed from the people they’d been on the ranch, kids again, trying to navigate in the world. They touched his arm, tucked his sleeve into his breast pocket for him, hands fluttering over him like it was his first day of school. As if they were trying to make him remember, trying to be memorable. They wanted him to know with absolute certainty, that even after he left he was loved, he was missed, that they cared.

They’d eaten together that morning, nothing flashy, sitting around the breakfast table, all of them nursing their respective hangovers, Jesse’s knee brushing his under the table, filling him with sparks. His girls had asked easy questions; what time they’d retired, when they’d leave, if the blankets were warm enough; Elena commenting idly that it shouldn’t have mattered, Jesse ran hot enough for the both of them. He’d been unable to keep from blushing, but Jesse had laughed, describing in intimate detail how cold Hanzo’s hands could get in the night, as though he was  familiar enough with his hands to illustrate the experience to other.

He’d damn near slunk to the floor in embarrassment, begging for the sweet relief of death.

Elena tucked Jesse’s hair behind his ears and Alisa straightened his collar, tutting at him, somewhere between telling him he was perfect and not to be “such a fucking idiot all the time, Jessito.” When they were done, Elena beckoned him over. He came to stand in front of her, letting Jesse’s shoulder brush his, letting Elena pinch his cheeks, a deep, darkness set in his chest. There would be no retreating from this point, from this choice, there were things he just had to do.

Elena levelled him, her warm hands on his cheeks. It was a strange practice, but he wasn’t uncomfortable with it, he’d long learned that this brand of American was more touch based than he was used to, Jesse included.

“Now, Hanzo,” she said his name all wrong, but he forgave her instantly, “we know that Jess can be a bit loud, and a bit rough around the edges.” Her thumbs moved over his cheekbones, and he tried to keep steady. “But you should forgive him, because he is very loyal. And he’ll be there when you need him.” He nodded, expression solemn, one hundred percent certain that they thought he was fucking their brother. Or being fucked by their brother, it was unclear. Perhaps it was better this way, perhaps it would be less painful for them this way. Boyfriends leave, it wasn’t a big deal, they’d understand. He cursed himself for trying to rationalise it, trying to keep his self-focused wrath from his eyes.

_He is very valuable to me,_ he’d said, very valuable. He’d been so full of resolve then, Jesse warm against his side, alcohol thick in his bloodstream, so certain that he could sit there forever, that there would never come anything more or less complicated than Jesse’s hand in his hair.

But once the morning came, once the dawn arrived, the light shining through the curtains, he could only see all the people he was incapable of being, the roles he couldn’t play. He was built for isolation, he was built for a three-month lease on a one-bedroom apartment in a thousand different cities. He should have known there was nothing natural about this, Elena’ hands on his cheeks, Jesse solid and warm beside him. He would not be anyone’s downfall but his own.

“I will,” he said. She patted his cheek, and he lowered his head for her to kiss it. She withdrew and smiled at him, big and broad, showing her canines like Jesse did, before peeling away, Alisa taking her place.

Alisa observed him, her shoulders straight, arms crossed across her chest. And he could imagine her at eighteen, overburdened, but determined. He could imagine her scrawny and young, making the decision to survive, teaching Jesse how to decide to survive. And he wondered if she could see his eighteen-year-old self too, overburdened like she had been. All that had happened was that she’d managed to keep ahold of her younger brother, and he hadn’t kept ahold of his.

She took his cheeks in her palms and didn’t let him look away.

“He tells me you are a good man,” she held him still, and her eyes softened. Even the harshest McCree couldn’t maintain judgement for long. They weren’t designed for it. “I believe it.” She pulled his head down towards her and kissed his forehead, and he could do nothing but let it happen. “Take care of him.”

And he was released, his permission to take their brother away granted, his agency returned intact. He bowed low to the two of them, hoping that they might mistake manners for honour, hoping that they might remember this moment more than the moment when Jesse told them that he’d left.

“I will do my best, thank you for your hospitality.”

“Good lad.”

He straightened, and all eyes were on him, fond and soft-hearted.

_He tells me you are a good man._

And this was getting harder, this was getting worse. They trusted him, they thought he was a good man, _Jesse_ thought he was a good man. But he wasn’t, and all he wanted was to run. He could think of nothing but how the breeze would feel on his face when he fled. He wanted nothing but to protect them, to be all that they thought, but all he could do was hunch his shoulders and yearn for the evening, hope it came soon, hope that when it came he would be able to get away, that Jesse’s deep sleeping would let him go. All he could do was try to minimise the damage he’d do, try to be forgettable, so that Jesse might only remember him as a midnight figure, a visitor more than a guest.

“I will start the car,” he muttered. He could at least give Jesse these last few moments, in private with his loved ones, so that when he woke up alone in their hotel room he would remember that he was still loved.

…

Leaving his sisters was always a bittersweet necessity.

Some days all he wanted was to crawl back home, not to a safe house but to the ranch. Childhood photos on the walls, the smell of pancakes in the air, open windows, doors all unlocked. Ever since he’d lost his arm, he’d started to yearn for the back porch, his mama’s old truck, for the person he’d been when he’d known little of violence, when he’d started each morning at dawn because that was when that the work began.

And every day that he spent away from the Watchpoint the more he thought he might have turned out happier if he’d stayed shooting rabbits rather than people, Alisa’s voice ringing in his ears, her hands on his shoulders, eyes boring into him.

_“You deserve better than this,”_ she’d said, _“but there are some things you are going to have to unlearn.”_ She’d refused to elaborate, but in the car, seated and settled, an hour later, a feeling of dread was still squirming in his stomach. Fatigue filled him, always feeling it more on the return journey, as though he hadn’t rested at all. As if his body knew that there were sleepless nights ahead, all of his muscles heavy, his mind subdued. He could almost feel the firm hand on the scruff of his neck, dragging him back. The weight of fifteen years’ worth of conflict, fifteen years’ worth of half healed wounds, of sick days too infrequently taken, of red-eye flights and gunfights still heavy on his shoulders.

All it took was a couple hours on the road and he was exhausted, daunted by the fights still to go.

Beside him Hanzo brooded, head against his fist, elbow leaning on the window sill, the wind moving through his hair. He was sad today, never said more than eight words in a sentence, eye contact made fleetingly, but his harsh words remained few, sad but unscowling. And there must have been things that he missed too, missed and looked forward to, knowing they might never come. Jesse had never really figured out how a life could be lived without violence, not since he was sixteen and hanging around the wrong folks, showing off his abuela’s revolver, impressing those wrong folks more than he should have.

But at least they could be old and tired together, deadlier than most men their age.

Hanzo added no pain to him, the more they stayed together the more he resembled the ranch, a ranch of his own, the more he became a part of the fantasy, the non-violent option. He alleviated the burden, sitting in the driver’s seat, even sad and silent he made the car ride easier, brought him closer to the person he could have been, slow and strong.

The sound of his phone interrupted the silence of the enveloping road, and he and Hanzo jumped at the same time, Hanzo sliding him a look as though he’d made it happen specifically to annoy him.

“It’s just your brother, darlin’.”

Hanzo frowned.

“Why does he have to call you so often?”

Jesse shrugged and answered the call, phone to his ear.

“Hey, Genji.”

Sometimes he forgot they were brothers, needed to say it out loud. Sometimes he forgot the origin of Genji’s body, forgot that it hadn’t always been his, that he hadn’t come out of womb with a metallic taste in his mouth. Forgot that for years they’d pledged never to let the other Shimada near Genji ever again, torn his family to the ground only to discover he’d been gone for years.

But he knew the story better now, they all did. They were older, less reactive, he could paint his own fatal mistakes from memory, knew what it was to hurt someone you love, to feel as though the universe might never forgive you. He understood, and knew, deep in his bones, that there was no evil in Hanzo, that much he was certain of.

“Jesse,” the trees wiped by, the countryside plain beside the road, “is Hanzo with you?” Hanzo’s whereabouts was always his first question, no hesitation, always the beginning rather than the end.

“Yeah, we’re in the car. Should reach the hotel by dinner time.” His thumb picked at his nails, phone trapped between his shoulder and his ear, listening to Hanzo listening even though his eyes didn’t eyes flicker from the road.

“You should know,” Genji began, Jesse stiffening, knowing that no good sentences started with _‘you should know’_. “That man you tipped us off about, Marco Hernández. He didn’t show up for work the past two mornings. We believe he may be putting a plan into action.” Jesse absorbed the information in silence, recalibrating, new sentences needing formation, plans of his own needing to be put into action.

“Jesse,” Hanzo’s eyes didn’t move from the rear-view mirror, hands tightening around the steering wheel. 

Jesse ignored him.

“Listen, we’ll come straight back. No hotel, we can make it by dawn at least-” Hanzo’s hand hit him square in the chest, the phone falling from his hand. “Ow, Hanzo, what the fu-?”

A black blur zipped in front of the car and each millisecond took an hour. He felt the car swerve, the squeal of brakes like seagulls, the smell of burning mechanics, assaulting his senses. Noise filled his ears, Hanzo’s fingers gripping his shirt as they went airborne. The air was knocked from his lungs, his seat belt digging into his skin, nausea filled him, his body in motion without his permission. And it was like being hit by a train, but worse, pain erupting all over him. But there was nothing he could do but wait for the impact, wait for the moment when his brain stopped rattling around against his skull or he passed out. One of the two.

…

A hand was moving over him, pawing at him, fingers coming to his throat, searching for his heartbeat. He floated, hanging perhaps, not certain which way was up and which way was down, his head pounding. The hand found his eyes, his ears, supported his head from where it dangled, calling to him, telling him sweet things he couldn’t understand, knowing nothing except that the sound of the voice was so soft.

There was a body, somewhere beyond the haze, warmth coming from somewhere, holding him up, easing the pressure of the seatbelt against his skin. He couldn’t fathom anything beyond it, the universe solidifying around him, but only as far as the figure, as far the soft touch, a smell like liqueur and smoke. The soft cloth of his shirt, the way that his body moved, angling him against his chest so that when the last of his weight came he would have some where safe to fall.

And when the seatbelt finally came undone, he landed against him, the arm hooked under his arm, the universe growing around him, expanding, unravelling. The figure dragged him backwards till his head rested between a pair of knees, the light burning through his eyelids. And mixed with the smell of the coffee and whiskey was the smell of scorched brakes, charcoal.

Blood.

“Hanzo,” the figure whispered, fingers on his temple. “Come back to me, darlin'.” Hand on his cheeks, more thoughts, fewer thoughts, they floated through him, he floated through them. “Pumpkin, if you can hear me, I need you to open your eyes,” The hand moved from his face to his chest, running a firm thumb over each of his ribs. Nothing creaked, but he went over each bone twice, feeling down his sides for abrasions.

He opened eyes to slits, the universe expanding further, unspooling, reaching as far as the sky, as far as Jesse’s face, the afternoon sun coming through his hair, golden brown, windshield in his eyebrows, his shoulders concave above him. His eyes were so clear, despite the gash on his forehead, blood dribbling down the side of his face, smudged from where he must have rubbed it away. It would need stitches, might scar if he let it. Hanzo wanted to reach up to him, feel his fingers on the scruff of his beard, the delicate skin of his eyelids, wanted to know if he was hurt, if he had drowned too, in this ocean of seatbelts and glass. But so much of him was still asleep, so much of him still submerged. So heavy.

“You’re good, Hanzo,” he whispered, “you’re doing so well, _cariño_.” Hanzo could feel himself shivering in and out, like a lens trying to focus, Jesse’s face blurring in front of him. “No,” Jesse called down to him like he was getting further and further away, sinking back into the sea, “eyes on me, sugar. Eyes on me.”

He tried to focus, for Jesse he tried to focus, on his beautiful face, on the rhythmic sound of footsteps on asphalt, the way his eyes glowed, his chest rising and falling. The footsteps grew louder, and he felt blood dribble from the corner of his mouth.

A figure appeared behind Jesse’s head, a darkness, blotting out the sun.

_“Hola,_ McCree _.”_

Jesse’s eyes widened with sudden fright and Hanzo watched the chain come over his head, watched it wrap around his throat and wrench him away, _screaming_. A ragged gasp escaped him, dragged from his lips as Jesse was ripped from his view, and his universe was suddenly only the sky, the glass and the blood, empty of all its virtue. And he fell back down to earth, reality filling him like lead beads, full up with a sudden sense of dread and fear. Left gasping, fearing, trying desperately to roll onto his stomach, not feeling the glass that covered the asphalt, until he lay on his elbows, trying to push himself upwards and failing, barely on his hands and knees, limbs shaking, weak and unsteady.

He could hear him, hear him yelling, growling, _suffocating_.

Marco bared down on him, hands on his knees, grinning.

“And hello to you Sora, so glad we got to meet again.”

Hanzo could only blink at him, eyebrows furrowed. Trying desperately to figure out why that name sounded so familiar. He gurgled angrily at him, but all of his words were muddled, his comprehension left wobbling once Jesse left the frame, trying to stay upright, keep his eyes from rolling back into his head.

“It’s okay, _amigo_ , you did your best. But he is ours now.”

Marco smiled down at him, and he didn’t know what was going on, how he’d come to be there, but something in him reacted like there was no statement more despicable, like he was a tinderbox, ready to go up in flames. Dragons writhed in him. They understood things he didn’t, understood that something important was being lost, that this man, this man Marco, was taking something from him, something that belonged to him. And it wasn’t right.

He bared his teeth, trying to focus, trying to keep a hold of this reality.

Marco’s eyes left him, turning, standing straight, and Hanzo’s head swivelled around, his view less obstructed, trying to catch sight of him. Jesse stood a few feet away, chain around his throat, just enough oxygen allowed in to keep him alive, veins standing out on his forehead, cheeks red. His hand clawed at the chain, a henchman holding him still. Hanzo mewled to him, desperate to get back to the moments just after waking, when his universe was only Jesse and his warmth.

“I am sorry about your arm McCree, but I’m sure my employer will make you a new one. Once you come with us,” Marco’s voice was like a thorn bush, like poison ivy and it burned against his skin. He heard the growl that came out of Jesse, the same voice he’d used way back when his arm had still been attached to his bicep. Like a wild animal in a cage, he thrashed against his captivity. Hanzo called to him as though he was in any position to sooth, calling him by his name from the ground, voice barely above a whisper, hair over his eyes.

Marco turned back to him, his grin was all teeth, malice glowing in him like he was in conversation with invisible figures, like he’d been dared to prove just how much harm he could inflict.

“But maybe, maybe it will be easier, once we remove a bit of your baggage. Maybe you just need a reminder of distance.”

Hanzo growled up at him as he unholstered the gun hanging from his hip, wicked look in his eyes. He starred down its barrel, and fear bubbled through him, a cold sweat over his arms, on his knees, hardly steady. And at any second he could pull the trigger, put a bullet right through his brain, and his life would be over. He would never get to the hotel room, never have to leave, he’d be suspended in the weekend in Portugal, murdered on the way back. He hoped that he would relive it, over and over again. The only weekend he could remember, he hoped that he’d wake up a thousand times with Jesse in his arms, a thousand fire pits, a thousand rivers.

Marco laughed at him and he heard the gun cock.

He refused to close his eyes, refused to cower, even if knew that this moment was about to come to an end. But before the bullet came a sort of screaming filled his ears, and for a moment he thought it was him. Until Jesse’s boot landed by him and Hanzo watched his fingers wrap around Marco’s throat, gun knocked him from his hand. His heart hammered in his chest as he watched fear enter Marco’s eyes, lifted off the ground and smashed back down to earth. Jesse’s put his whole body put into the movement, all the power he had put into throwing Marco’s body at any available hard surface; roaring, enraged, shirt taunt over his shoulders.

And he’d never feared Jesse, not from the first second he’d met him, not since Jesse had let him press a knife to his throat, had apologised to him in the alleyway behind the restaurant. But Hanzo watched his fist connect with a henchman’s mouth, tooth sent flying, knocked back with the force, and there was a damage that he could inflict, up close and personal, devastating.

Jesse crouched above him shoulders heaving, hand shaking, lips curled to his canines, forcing out breath. When another henchman approached Jesse threw him away by the collar of his shirt, sent him skidding across the asphalt. Big body, strong arm, long legs, yelling like there was a fire in him, telling them to get away,to _“Fuck. Off,”_ angry and afraid, his breathing ragged.

“Don’t shoot him,” Marco gasped from the ground, “Don’t shoot him!”

Jesse above him, ripping the Peacekeeper from his hip, safety off, revolver cocked, meaning to kill the first one that got close enough. He was covered in blood, breathing hard, snarling as the henchmen he’d thrown away started to rise, started to creep back, evil determination in their eyes. And Hanzo realised, in that moment, that they were going to try and take Jesse from him, that was what they meant, that was what they wanted. They were going to try and take him away. A white-hot rage boiled up in him, dragons coiled, ready to pounce, and he stumbled to his feet, dragging himself up Jesse’s stature, legs wobbling beneath him, arm around Jesse’s waist, hand flat on his stomach. Jesse didn’t move at his touch, crazed with fear and blind aggression, Peacekeeper raised, the only part of him that was steady.

They were starting towards them again, five or six of them, weapons extended, not to make the same mistakes again. Hanzo could feel Jesse’s body preparing for the assault, like he was growing roots into the ground, preparing to be the immovable object to their unstoppable force. But Hanzo wouldn’t let them take him, wouldn’t let them rip him from his hands. He was not fit to die while Jesse was in danger. And how dare they, how dare they think that Jesse was theirs for the taking, was an option. How dare they think that there would be no repercussions, that this was all that it would take. Fury rolled through him, left him strained for breath, nose pressed into Jesse’s shoulder as they advanced, breathing him in.

His hand found the Peacekeeper’s handle in Jesse’s grip, covering Jesse’s hand with his own, their fingers meeting over the trigger. It wasn’t perfect, but his bow was all the way back in the car, and the dragons were rolling in him, tattoo burning to get out, to fight. They were angry too. He raised the weapon, arm straight, watching the henchman flinch. They surged forward at the new threat, shuddering backwards, trying to push him behind, shield him, as the henchmen approached faster, circling them. A few raised their own guns, more at him than at Jesse.

Jesse growled wordlessly at them, nose crinkling.

Hanzo held onto him tighter, keeping him still, hand scrunched up into his shirt, and screamed as well, but something very different. They pulled the trigger.

Blue burst from them, arms around each other, the dragons finding the bullet and attaching themselves to it, devoted and furious. They gnashed and bit, wind suddenly swirling around them, a whipping at their hair, as the dragons found their prey. There was nothing to be done, even as the henchmen fired bullets into the sky, bending over backwards to get away. To no avail. And for a moment there was only noise, Jesse like stone against him, and then there were only bodies left and he felt the dragons return to him, their job complete, refilling him.

It was over, and immediately he passed out.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen, I totally think that the reaction to either of them being in danger is for the other to go completely batshit fucking crazy, like actually, just balls to the wall, madness; undiluted, unbridled rage. McCree especially. I see his brand of violence as having been developed in a gang setting, no art to it. When you boil a McCree-brand fight down to it's most basic ingredients, dribble in some panic in there, some terror, what you get is some backstreet ruthless bullshit, some fighting dog, hackles raised bullshit.


	11. Best You Sleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this pic really does seem to swing wildly between feral and tender, and last chapter was feral so get ready for some goddamn tenderness, being gentle with other souls. I have also been listening to a lot of Hozier's new album, so there's that as an influence. 
> 
> From here on in, we really sit mostly with Hanzo's POV, visiting Jesse occasionally, but more like we're just catching up. 
> 
> Also, in this au, Jesse never leaves overwatch, which allowed me to consider the thesis of the incredible fatigue of continuous fighting, of always being on call, of living at your job, barely any shore leave. And that is really what this pic became about, about Hanzo and Jesse bringing the exhaustion out in each other, for Hanzo the fatigue of instability, a thousand different apartments, and for Jesse, the fatigue of violence, of responsibility and unchanging demand. 
> 
> So yea, call it a hypothesis. 
> 
> Proceed.

He woke up wrapped in debris, sitting slumped against his chest, the jacket he’d given Jesse all those weeks ago over his shoulders, gazing at the back of an unfamiliar passenger seat. He could feel Jesse’s breathing, feel his arm around his waist, tucked against his side as though he was something small and precious, watching over him. He was so warm, eyes half open, Jesse’s hand on his hip, holding onto him.

He took a deep breath like his lungs were learning how to re-inflate, almost too tired to keep his eyes open, his hands dead in his lap, stiff and still. The dragons were settled uneasy in him, like saltwater dried on his skin, tight; his control frail, their spirits still rattling, writhing with anxiety, distrustful, knowing how much has almost been lost.

But there was nothing to fight here, nothing to maim or fear, just Jesse and his stable body, alive and still under his protection, under their protection.

His breath left him again like a sigh, his hand rising to his face, rubbing at his eyes, at the tender places there, grazes and bruises, but nothing broken. He realised blearily that he could hear Jesse’s heartbeat, all tucked against his chest. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d trusted someone like this, trusted someone in the aftermath, in recovery. The last time he’d woken up against a body, unable to remember falling asleep, knowing that he'd been moved without his supervision, and yet still so certain that he was safe, that he was taken care of.

He sat forward, heart slow in his chest, rubbing both hands over his face, trying to force himself awake, trying to get his brain to work, trying to get his body back. He felt so blank, so old, unable to feel anything, but knowing that he should have been concerned, should have wanted to know what was going on, control the situation.

Instead, a hand came steady to his back, right between his shoulder blades, warm and steady, a voice coming to him from somewhere beyond the confines of his fingers.

“It’s okay,” it came, soft and slow, “there is a ways to go yet, my darlin’,” the hand moved up and down his spine, a soft, soothing pressure. “It’s best you sleep.” Hanzo looked over at him, beautiful Jesse, all roughed up, blood dried on his brow, scratches framing his cheeks from flying glass, graze at his jaw. His eyes looked exhausted, the evening sky through the window behind him, sunset colours softening his wounds. He smiled but it was small, tired, holding himself together like someone on a journey they’d been on many times before, knowing precisely the hills still yet to go, familiar enough with the ache that it was dull, that it could rouse no energy. Just dragging onwards, holding them together.

_It’s best you sleep._

The hand raised from his spine and for a moment it almost seemed like Jesse might have tucked his hair behind his ear for him, but he withdrew, eyes flickering away, taking back his arm as though it was unwanted. Hanzo frowned at him, barely comprehending movement, barely comprehending that his side was cold now, that his jacket was slipping from his shoulders. 

He couldn’t remember if he’d ever wanted anything before this moment, if he’d had any other motive than to get Jesse’s arm back around him, couldn’t remember if he was the sort of man who hesitated. But he found his fingers closing around his wrist, pulling his arm back around him, laying himself back down on his chest, slinging an arm over his stomach. He closed his eyes, sinking back into his steady heartbeat, the warmth of his side, too exhausted to pretend that he didn’t want this comfort, didn’t want to lay down his defences.

For a moment, Jesse was stiff against him, but he softened, arm pulling him close, holding onto him back, wrapped up in each other’s arms in the backseat of an unfamiliar car.

…

It had been a Spanish Police car, driven by a young man, who had referred to Jesse by rank instead of his name, all doe eyed and youthful; stiff, starched collar, jolting into action, outranked, doing what Jesse told him to do.

"We’re here, lieutenant," he’d whispered from the drivers seat, "do you need help with your, ah, companion?"He’d said _companion_ as though they were something tender, as if trying to convey some tenderness of his own, trying to prove that if help was needed he would be careful, delicate with precious things.

"No, we’ll be fine," Jesse had said, voice nothing like it should have been. "Now I ain’t gonna be seein’ this on the news, am I, son?" He sounded old, abrupt, almost cold, no matter how Hanzo had felt his thumb moving slowly back and forth just under his shirt, comforting him.

"No sir," the young man had whispered back, "just between us, amigo."

He’d let Jesse lead him from the police car, spilled from the backseat with half the bags they’d started with and double the wounds. Even as the space around them had grown, Jesse hadn’t peeled away from his side, hand on his hip, and Hanzo had kept his arms tight around him, pressing his face into the soft cloth of his shirt, legs like jelly beneath him.

The safe house was a single room, a single bed, a single chair, a small bathroom with only a toilet and sink. The room was bathed in yellow light, a single bulb dangling shadeless from the ceiling, a draft coming in under the floorboards, making him shiver. Jesse had given him a granola bar and a swig of whiskey for a dinner, shaken the dust from the sheets for him, given him a place to collapse. And at first, he’d slept like the pillow was laced with chloroform, but he couldn’t hold it. He was like a deep-sea diver diving down to the sea bed, trying to cling onto the rocks, sea grass slipping through his fingers, and rising back to the surface again, back staring at the ceiling.

Every time he woke up Jesse was still sitting in the chair in front of the door, unmoving like a statue in the low light. He held the Peacekeeper in his lap like a rosary, set himself like a snare, waiting for the barest of sounds, the barest of movements to set him off, eyes set on the door. And he was so still, so motionless, guarding the entry like a dog at a gate, like a sentinel against a wall. He didn’t move, held himself on purpose, held himself like he was expendable, like he was the shield they’d have to rip through to get in. Hanzo could see the fear in him, in his shoulders, the way he sat, unable to let his guard down. Unable to sleep, made up of resolve and terror.

Hanzo watched him from the bed, arms around his knees, eyes on the back of his neck, pit in his stomach, and for once, he wished his brother would call. Anything to distract him, remind him that people were waiting for them to get home, assure him that nobody would follow them from the crash. Jesse had told him that Overwatch would arrive in the dawn. When it was safe. Told him as he set the chair in front of the door and waited for Marco to come for them. He couldn't have survived, but Hanzo knew that it was his face Jesse pictured coming through the door, coming to drag him away.

Outside, cicadas patrolled the night.

He wanted nothing but to alleviate this pain, nothing more than to do the work of carrying this for him. Wanted to join him in his vigilance, because he too was afraid, he too feared the darkness behind the door, understood why they’d closed all the windows and kept the lights on. He wished that they could go back, go back to when the universe had only been Jesse, when Jesse had called to him, his voice light, his hands gentle. _Cariño,_ Jesse had called him.

It came back to him in their ex-safe house, his voice, _cariño,_ it swirled through him, shivering against his skin. It had felt so right, delighted him, shouldn’t have delighted him, but sent his mind spinning. When he’d opened his eyes to see his face, sunlight shining through his hair like a halo, it was like a billboard, like getting smacked in the face with a neon sign. Like the universe had been trying to tell him something, and all this time he’d been too thick to listen. And all he’d been able to think was _it’s you._

_Thank god it’s you._

He crept from the bed.

Jesse wasn’t even himself enough to stiffen at his touch, eyes unmoving from the door as Hanzo stood behind his chair, hands on his shoulders, warring with himself. The parts of him that would have curled up on the floor at Jesse’s feet battled against the parts of him that would die before he let Jesse know that. His fingers grazed Jesse’s throat, and he could feel the tension there, just under the skin, where the pattern of the chain was bruising, blood under his nails from where he’d clawed at it, when the violent panic had taken him.

He was still covered in all his wounds as Hanzo wrapped arms around his shoulders, leaning over the back of his chair to press their cheeks together. Because he was beautiful, and he needed to let go of the snarling person he’d been at the crash. He’d kept them alive, he’d done what he’d needed to do, and he needed to let go of that person now, needed to get back to the way he’d been before.

“Come to bed with me,” Hanzo whispered into his ear, the words coming out of him so easily, holding onto him, arms across his throat.

He folded his hand over his eyes, taking from him the view of the door, taking his vigilance.

“There is no one out there,” he whispered, Jesse’s eyelashes fluttering against the palm of his hand.

“Come to bed,” he whispered, Jesse softening in his arms, surrendering, letting him take the Peacekeeper from his limp grasp, letting him place it on the floor.“I will protect you.” Hanzo kissed the side of his head like his sisters had done, like it might sooth him, smoothing down his hair, holding onto his shoulders. He wouldn’t pretend that his mind wasn’t still filled with images of Marco’s face, of the violence. That he couldn’t still hear Jesse’s roars in his ears, the sound of guns cocking, of the dragons thrashing within him, but he knew that there was safety in the sheets of a safe house. And he wanted Jesse to know it too.

Jesse let him lead him to the bed, allowed himself to be sat down on the edge, watching Hanzo fill a basin with warm water, getting the first aid kit from the bathroom cabinet, his face grave. Hanzo knelt down in front of him, and took his hand, his bloodied knuckles, bruised, skin split. He was painted with watercolours beneath the skin, beautiful in its own sort of way, familiar. Hanzo washed him, disinfected the cuts, tried to care for him the same way that he’d cared for his own wounds a thousand times before. But he treated Jesse with a delicacy with which he had never treated himself.

He took the blood from the claw marks at his throat, holding his chin up, Jesse’s eyes on him, washed him until the basin was red with blood. He stitched the cut above his eyebrow, and patched the graze at his jaw, hand on his cheek, holding his head steady. Jesse leaned into him as he ran bandages over his hand, pressed his face into the crook his neck, needy for comfort, the door forgotten.

Hanzo gave his head a light rub, because he was beautiful, because he was hurting, because he’d gotten a fright. And Hanzo had wanted to leave so badly, had counted each moment until he would flee, until he could get back to his simple life, life without question, empty of variables beyond his control. But here, now, Jesse’s nose buried in his collarbone, he was stagnant, uncontrollably devoted. This was just another promise Jesse needed him making.

And he was still so tired, still just wanted to be quiet, for all things to be steady, not up for discussion. All he wanted was to wrap himself around Jesse, hold him in his arms while he healed, and sleep.

“I really thought he was gonna shoot you.” Hanzo felt his lips move against his skin as he tucked a pin through the bandages, securing them around his knuckles.

“I did as well.” Hanzo stroked his hair and held them together. “But he didn’t. We are safe now.” He felt Jesse’s fingers tighten around his hand, eyes closing against the skin of his throat, heavy with exhaustion. He’d worked so hard, done so well, and Hanzo wanted him to know how grateful to him he was, how trusted he was, how good it felt to trust.

“I felt ‘em,” Jesse whispered against his skin, “your… the-those…” he couldn’t seem to bring himself to say the word, “like sticking a fork in a power socket.” Hanzo laughed, low and sweet, one hand held in Jesse’s fingers, the other on in his head. 

“I knew that they would not hurt you,” he murmured against his hair, “they are very fond of you.” Jesse snorted, something like a laugh, breath against his chest, sending shivers down his spine.

“Well, that’s good,” he seemed to rub his face into Hanzo’s neck. “Wouldn’t want to have pissed off the ancient spirits,” his voice turning to whisper. Hanzo laughed, and he knew none of this was within the bounds he’d set for himself, none of this normal, friendly, he knew that it was no one but Jesse. He’d had other friends in his life, close friends, but there was no one he had touched as freely, no one he had longed for like he longed for Jesse.

It was so easy for his hand to rise to his cheek, so easy to press their foreheads together, soft and sweet in a safe house, eyes slipped closed, Jesse’s breath ghosting over his skin. Hanzo kissed him, was kissed by him, like a wave washing ashore, a gentle inevitability, nature running its course unhurried, slow and patient, their hands woven on his knee. Neither of them had it in them to stiffen, to flinch, just to laugh deliriously into the kiss, break apart, eyes unopened and dip back down again, as gentle as ripples in a stream.

“Hanzo,” Jesse’s voice came from somewhere very close to him, soft, “you don’t have to-”

“Hush,” it was so easy to kiss him, gentle and sweet against his mouth, so easy lto lay him down on his back beneath the sheets, crawl over him and pull him into his arms, wrap his arms around him. And Jesse’s arm wrapped around him in return, around his waist, holding onto him, face pressed into his bare chest, Hanzo’s fingers running through his hair,.

He closed his eyes as he felt Jesse relax, shoulders slackening against him, nuzzling his forehead into Hanzo’s collarbone. Hanzo stroked his hair, knowing he should have found it difficult to breathe, shouldn’t have been able to sleep, but Jesse was safe in his arms again, and they were in bed, and he was just a little too tired to think.

…

He woke up with the first bang, the ones that followed crashing over him like waves. He launched himself upwards, heart hammering in his chest, Hanzo’s arms trying to keep a hold of him. He fell off the bed, stumbling forward, fingernails scraping at the floorboards as he grabbed the Peacekeeper from the floor. He could hear Hanzo hissing for him, somewhere in the haze behind him, panic thrumming against his ribcage, gun cocked in his hand, golden and shining, held in front of him.

Hanzo’s hand landed on his shoulder, silent beside him, switchblade in his hand. They nodded to each other. Jesse gestured for him to get the door, positioning himself beside the doorframe, Peacekeeper lowered in front of him, Hanzo taking a hold of the doorknob, latch undone, Jesse watching him count down on his fingers. Together they mouthed the words:

“One, two, three.”

Hanzo threw the door open, a figure entered, and Jesse hit whoever it was on the back of the head with the Peacekeeper’s handle as hard as he could.

“Ow, Jesus fuck! Jesse!”

Genji tripped forward, hand reaching up to his hair, Hanzo bouncing out from behind the door, and pressing the switchblade to his throat. Jesse damn near collapsed to the floor with relief, Peacekeeper shaking in his hand with disused adrenaline.

“Lordy, Genji,” he gasped, “fucking announce yourself before you go bangin’ on doors, Je- _sus_.”

He was dressed in full armour, like he was walking into a war zone, sword over his spine, his eyes flickering from the knife to his brother and back, Jesse standing ignored.

“And what exactly did you think that was going to do?”

Jesse watched Hanzo’s face twist, irritation on his face, watching from over his brother’s shoulder, reaching for his knees, breathing laboured. It had been a rough twenty-four hours and he wasn’t designed for this anymore, he couldn’t take the stress. He was older now, he understood what it was to fail to protect something, to lose someone. His body saw all the pain coming, saw all the potential agony a mile off, and had known when Marco had unholstered his weapon that there was nothing he wouldn’t do to keep Hanzo alive. And it was a terrifying thing to want to protect something as easily damaged as a person.

Even now all he could see was Marco and his pistol pointed at Hanzo’s forehead, all he could hear was his voice, the crunch of glass under his boots. It kept replaying in his head, over and over again, keeping the terror and the rage alive in him.

Worse was the swing, worse was how heavily he’d slept, how deeply he’d dozed, surrounded Hanzo’s pulse, Hanzo’s body, strong arms wrapped around him, their legs tangled, breathing in the cherry blossoms, wrapped in the evidence that nobody had pulled the trigger on him, taken him away. Worse was launching from the deep sleep, the bliss of his embrace, his body pulled against him, launching from the peace to the shaking, ricochetting panic, thinking that it was going to be gone, that he’d only just gotten to kiss him, desperately wanted to do it more, terrified by the thought that it might be ripped from his grasp. The result was the violent body.

But he didn’t want to need that version of himself anymore, he didn’t want to have to embrace that fear, he didn’t want the violence. He wanted to live. He wanted Hanzo to live, he wanted them to live together, he yearned for New Mexico, where nobody would ever find them. He wanted to feel free, unthreatened, serene, wanted to shake off the armour built over decades, wanted to lose all the reflexes that resulted in broken noses and grow new ones built on opening doors to strangers and the mornings to come.

Instead he worried that he’d get to that person, the violent body, push it a bit too far, and never be able to get back. He’d stay that way, unable to remove the holster from his hip, unable to take a clear breath. Loosing limbs until he was just a shell, fresh out of bullets to fire, but not knowing what else to do. Until the violence was a habit in him.

Genji laughed at his brother, and Gabe stepped through the door, shotguns at his hips, arms by his sides. He gazed steadily at Jesse, taking in his injuries, his shoulders firm and his mouth grim. Jesse grinned breathlessly at him, trying not to show his sense of doom on his face. Hanzo was arguing with Genji about all the ways that he would be able to pluck his eyeballs out with a toothpick and Gabe patted his shoulder as though he’d known that this was going to happen, known from the start.

“Really got a number done on you, huh, _mijo_?”

Gabe smirked at him, and he laughed.

“It ain’t nothin’,” he wheezed, Gabe rocking back on his heels, taking him in like view, like a man taking inventory, going over a room after a robbery. Jesse could only hunch in front of him, hope he couldn’t see the mountains he yearned for, his fatigue, the exhaustion that sat in his bones and refused to budge. The adoration that bloomed there too, the delight, his goopy centre that melted every time Hanzo’s gaze flickered over to him, that had kissed him, been kissed by him, fell asleep in his arms hoping that he’d never have to sleep anywhere else. It was a dangerous thing, Gabe wouldn’t like it.

He went to cuff Jesse’s cheek, like he’d been doing since forever, but ended up just rubbing at his ear, batting his head around. It was as close as he got to affection on days when no one was dying. Jesse understood that, understood his furrowed eyebrows, understood that even if he couldn’t see the mountains in his eyes, see Hanzo, he’d know there was something. They’d known each long enough sense the weight on each other’s shoulders.

Gabe tugged at his hair, pulling at his head to peer at the cut above his eyebrow, Jesse could feel the stitches moving; a lot neater than his own would have been.

“These aren’t your stitches.” 

“Hanzo did ‘em for me.”

Gabe narrowed his eyes for a moment, before grunting and letting go of him. Like now that he’d confirmed that he wasn’t going to die in the next half hour, he was back being the least of the problems. He’d been the least of Gabe’s problems since he was nineteen, and he craved the consistency.

…

Genji sat next to him in the back of Reyes’ truck with his hands behind his head, staring out the window. Every now and again he interjected in whatever conversation was taking place in the front seat, making his presence known. Reminding them that Reyes’ truck was his domain and he had held the passenger seat for the first leg of the car trip and now he was forced to lounge in the back, dethroned and usurped.

Hanzo tried not to look at him, sitting as still as he could in the hopes that his brother would forget he was there and not attempt to speak with him. He’d never known a horror like realising that Genji might one day find out what he’d done, what more he dreamt of doing, how his exhausted self had dragged his best friend to bed with him, unsure of who had kissed who but certain that it had happened, that he had wanted it happening. He could think of no worse possibility than that, knowing that he’d planned to leave specifically to avoid this outcome, that he’d worked so hard to avoid this, and had fallen inwards regardless. Lulled into thinking that the evening might go on forever, that he might never have to face the harsh morning light, that he could just stay asleep.

But every now and then, Jesse looked back at him, shot him a tired smile, and he settled back down again, the thought of abandonment whisking out of him.

He and Reyes were talking quietly in the front seat, their dog tags shining on the backs of their necks, matching.

“How are the girls?” He could just see Reyes finger stroking the steering wheel, McCree running a contemplative hand through his hair, shrugging. Hanzo watched them, vague sense of foreboding in his belly. Jesse had a way of producing anomalies in him, taking him off script, forcing recalibration, evasive manoeuvres. But his lips had been so soft, his body always so warm, so responsive. And he felt like a cancer patient discovering a new sense, wanting to feel everything as fast as possible, wanting to do it all before his time ran out.

Being in the car with Reyes and Genji was just time wasting to him.

He stared at the back of Jesse’s head, listening.

“Eh, they’re okay. A bit ticked off that I got ‘em into this again.”

“Did you call them? After the accident?”

“Nah, figured I’d wait till we got back to base. Didn’t want to worry ‘em.”

“Jesus Jess,” Hanzo could hear the displeasure in Reyes’ voice, “call your goddamn sisters. Y’know they like to know these things.”

“It ain’t nothing," Jesse frowned, voice firm, "they don’t need to know.”

He watched Reyes lean over and hit him upside the head with the flat of his palm, throwing his phone at him a moment later, Jesse fumbling to catch it from where he was slouched.

“Call them. Right now.”

Jesse grumbled, covered in his most indignant expression, but dialling, eyes rolling.

And Hanzo realised that two weeks ago this conversation would have happened in Spanish. But Reyes allowed this, made space in the car for him, gave him the gift of his indifference. He remembered the look that Reyes had given him before they’d left, remembered the hand on his shoulder and the unspoken threat. _Back in four days, y’hear?_ And he recognised now that it had been a kind of test, a kind of opportunity.

To be good. Trustworthy.

But Jesse was still all messed up, still glowing with bruises, covered in bandages, needing more stitches. Hanzo could see the bruise around his throat, had listened to him coughing in the night. It made his stomach churn, and this wasn’t a vulnerability he was comfortable with. Even tucked inside his own heart, out of sight, it was a crack in his armour that only he could see. But he knew it was there, knew that one day it might splinter and spread, and leave him open and defenceless, shards of steel around his feet. 

Reyes had tested his willingness, his determination to keep this part of his life alive, and for the second time in forty-eight hours he’d revealed something, confessed something that he’d never meant to foster.

_He is very valuable to me._

He stared at the back of Jesse’s ear, listened to him explain to one of his sisters, explaining what had happened, listened to his rolling laugh, his sweet voice playing down each and every factor of the incident.

And there was so much about this that made no sense. He had long insisted that there was no part of him capable of anything but violence and isolation. But last night he had held Jesse, held him because he was scared and even more vulnerable than he was. And he’d wanted for him to be soothed, wanted him to feel safe, wanted him to sleep. The longer he stayed, the fonder he became, the further the cracks spread, the less the sweet relief of the open road appealed to him. And the more afraid he grew of never enjoying a train ride to another city again, of coffee made by his own hand, of the cigarettes he used to smoke.

_You are very valuable to me_ , he thought.

_Fuck._

…

Hanzo had vanished from the truck as soon as they’d arrived, not even a word of explanation, just slipped into the anonymity of the Watchpoint, disappeared into the concrete. Jesse had meant for them to talk about this, meant for there to be some interval between waking and working, where they could figure out what had happened like detectives going back over a crime scene, going back over it step by step, moment by moment, cartographers to the uneven terrain of their relationship, whatever it was. 

But the opportunity had never come, the conversation left undone, Hanzo leaving their company like he'd fallen through a trapdoor, there one minute, gone the next. Jesse had found himself hovering outside his quarters for the longest time, hand raised to knock, knowing he was in there, knowing that if he wanted Jesse talking he would have stayed to listen, knowing that he wouldn't know what to say. In the end he'd left it, stuck somewhere between defensive mirth and wounded despair. Hanzo had been so soft in the night, so gentle, letting Jesse kiss him, curl up in his arms, had cared for him as though he felt some care for him.

But he’d fled, shrunk from his presence, refused to engage.

He tried not to take it personally, tried to remind himself that whatever Hanzo could need, it wasn’t that. He should have known, been better, stronger.

_Hush._

Instead he slunk to Ana, for the check up she wanted of him, sulky and subdued. She sat him on one of the beds in the ward, and ran all the tests she could, going over all his stitches, new and old, the big abrasions, the little ones. She was dutiful, she’d been dutiful for as long as he’d known her, noting all of his wounds down in her neat handwriting. There were few things that comforted him more than the sound of Ana Amari writing things on a clipboard. She was humming to herself, and he could remember meeting her, meeting her and knowing that she saw him exactly as he was. As a scared little kid who’d fucked up real bad and didn’t know how to stop. She’d never stopped seeing that kid.

He stared at the picture of Fareeha on the back of her clipboard and wondered if Fareeha knew it was there.

“You look very tired Jesse.”

He blinked up to her face, already raising his shoulders, already siting straighter, as though he was at all capable of lying to her. He averted his eyes.

“It ain’t nothin’.”

Her hand landed on his shoulder.

“It is not anything,” she corrected him gently, it had been almost fifteen years, but she’d never stopped trying to get him to speak better, shake his country drawl. It was a kind of care. Her hand slipped to his knee, patting it softly. “What’s wrong, _habibi_?” She saw things in him, and he was back being that kid again, even though he felt nothing but old.

He didn’t know how to say it out loud, how to say, _‘I don’t feel at home here anymore,’_  how to to explain that he was breaking down like a machine does, uncertain if he had a place in that Shimada's chest like he had a place in his. He didn’t have the words for it, wouldn't be able to weather her advice, her voice telling him to go if he needed to, to love if that was what he had in him.

He couldn’t hear it just yet, wouldn’t be able to take it.

“The crash just took it out of me is all,” and it was a kind of honesty, lying to her. The only way he might be able to say, _‘I am afraid,’_ without actually having to say it at all. She smiled at him, holding her photo of Fareeha to her chest, hand on his knee.

“It is okay, you come and talk to me when you’re ready, _habibi_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! They finally kissed. Followed almost immediately by gay panic. 
> 
> It's a sweet spot for me. 
> 
> But like really, both of them are going through the motions of "fuck, I thought this was a crush, but now I want to marry him, what the absolute fucking fuck is up with that shit."


	12. Cowardice Is Unbecoming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this chapter is a week late for a number of reasons. 
> 
> First, I put off editing it until literally the last minute because I found myself five thousand words deep into a Wild West, vampire!hanzo au. Second, when I finally got around to editing it, I realised that pretty much all of it needed to be rewritten because I didn't like it. And then I revisited the vampire/western au where it became very smutty, but then also grew metaphors. And then I had to edit the rewritten bits again. 
> 
> So yea, I am banned from everything as of now. 
> 
> Sorry.

He waited for the dawn to come with his sheets tossed, tangled around his legs, duvet half on the floor, spending the night caught somewhere between restlessness and fatigue. What little he’d slept he’d done so with all the lights on, on his back, dreaming harsh enough dreams that he woke up gasping for breath, wrenching himself out of his sheets, covered in sweat.

He’d dreamt of the crash, of Hanamura, of the things he’d taken and the things that could have been taken from him; dreamt of splintered glass, the bitter taste of blood, dreamt that his Jesse had been killed, his body turned cold by a thousand different hands, most times his own. He dreamt of his body strewn across asphalt, his eyes dull, staring at nothing, his honey skin pale, broken and battered, murdered on the road home. And every time he woke up, thrust back into his damp sheets, there was no evidence that he hadn’t been, no evidence that he'd lived, that he was okay, that he was safe.

It made him want to go tearing around the Watchpoint, up and down every corridor, looking for his name, knowing that he’d sleep so well if he’d just allow himself to go crawling into his bed, under his arm, surrounded by his sleepy breath.

But he couldn’t.

When he’d gotten back, his room had been exactly the same as when he’d left it; the bed unmade, the curtains closed, a series of abandoned water glasses half empty on the sill, ashtray on the bedside table. It hadn’t been touched, except for the silver nameplate on his door, shiny and new, identifying him to anyone who happened to walk down his corridor, taking from him his anonymity, his silence. His hand had twitched to slip it out of its sheath, carry it inside with him, hoping he might still be able to disappear into the Watchpoint, that he could still be hidden here.

Instead, he’d left it there, lowering his hand, remembering that Jesse had tried to find him once, might try to find him again, might make this decision for him, take it out of his hands. He longed for this to be taken out of his hands.

He never came.

Hanzo sighed, rubbing his hands over his face, pit in his stomach. It felt so wrong to lie here, felt so wrong that he was cold, that each time he woke up he felt nothing of Jesse on him, no contact, no comfort. The past four mornings he’d woken up touching him, being touched by him, finding him in the haze of sleep and he was haunted by the sensation. He could almost feel him, imagine him so perfectly, lying next to him, his hair splayed out on the pillow, snoring softly. The way he’d lie on his stomach, the way Hanzo might lean over to him and pepper his spine with kisses, so that he knew that he was loved, that he was precious, valuable.

Hanzo could still feel Jesse laughing into the kiss, the way he’d pressed back against him, nothing platonic about it, nothing fraternal, nothing tepid, nothing _friendly._ All he had was hunger, was the desire to be intimate with him, rough with him, and it was exhausting trying to convince himself that he didn’t. He was so tired of all these lukewarm attempts at distance, all these intermissions of fear, bouncing between the horror of wanting to push him up against hard surfaces, feel him shiver, and the delight of hoping that Jesse might let him try.

He rubbed at his eyes, curling into his sheets, groaning. It was getting worse, he could feel it, worsening with each day that passed, gnawing at him. He wanted to spend all day touching him, tucking his hair behind his ear, leaning down to kiss him, feeling his hands on his hips. Ridiculous.

He wanted to dig himself in a shallow grave, and then he wanted to drink himself to death in it.

He didn’t go to the bench when the dawn came.

…

“You look like shit,” Genji hadn’t knocked, had bypassed the locking system somehow, “like, emotionally.” Hanzo snarled at him from where he was perched on the windowsill, his bare feet resting on the bedside table, the breeze on the back of his neck, circulating the stiff summer air through his room, trying to keep his mind from Jesse’s face, from whatever he was doing right now.

He’d hoped no one else would come for him, had listened to the footsteps come down the hall hoping that it was him, had looked up hoping that it was him, that he was here to take this out of his hands. He’d waited with an unlit cigarette for his absence to be noticed, to be sought out, for Jesse to plant himself on the bed and to talk to him, effortless. It was always effortless when he was there, he smoothed the creases, made is all so impossible to resist that Hanzo could get away with not even bothering to try.

The relief was palpable when he was there, _thank god it's you._

He never came.

Instead Genji stood in his doorway with his hands on his metal hips, looking at him with a kind of resigned disgust. Hanzo narrowed his eyes on him.

“Can I help you?” His voice came out icy, cigarette dangling from his bottom lip, running on a few snatched hours of sleep and spite, lip curled back into a snarl.

“Not with anything in particular,” Genji began to amble around his room, posturing himself as though if he’d had pockets he would have had his hands in them, sneering at his tossed clothes, his unmade bed. “I spoke with Jesse.”

Hanzo went stiff all over, his stomach clenching, suddenly in danger of loosing his balance and falling backwards out of the window. They hadn’t spoken a word of it, hadn’t acknowledged it, hadn’t had the time, but it was a private vulnerability, not one he’d meant to share with many, certainly not with Genji. Dread filled him.

“And?” His voice was tight where he’d meant for it to be calm, cold even, distant, and Genji narrowed his eyes at the back cover of his book lying on the desk.

“He told me Portugal was nice,” Genji fingered the book open, Hanzo unbreathing across the room, “that you’re getting along well, that you’re good to him,” Genji straightened, Hanzo’s eyes trained on him like he was a circling shark in cold water. Genji looked right back at him. “I told him he must have the wrong person.”

If Genji expected him to laugh, he was wrong. Never before in his life had he felt further from laughing, felt further from taking a joke. Genji was already not the person he’d hoped he’d be, already knee deep in a conversation he didn’t want to have.

But at least he seemed to be fishing, feeling through the murky water trying to figure out what was going on here, not knowing that Hanzo would choose a slow death over telling him any speck of the truth, over revealing even the dimmest version of the feelings he felt, the desires he had. He could not be unraveled.

“As far as I can remember,” he said coldly, “it was you who told me to be nice to him.”

Genji stood back on his heels, arms crossing across his chest.

“I told you to be grateful,” Genji sneered, “it seems you’ve gone quite beyond that.”

That was a weighty implication and Hanzo growled in response, snatching the cigarette from his lips between two fingers so that he could bare his teeth.

“Watch your tone,” he hissed, “say what you mean.” He prayed to any god that would listen that his brother would not say what he meant.

Genji sighed, dramatic, flicking at his hair, settling Hanzo with a lukewarm stare, as though he was something small and hopeless, clumsy.

“It does not matter,” he muttered, “come and eat lunch with me, we will talk no more of this.” He wouldn’t say it aloud, ask his question, but whatever he was implying hung heavy in the air. Hanzo could almost see it in his narrow eyes, scrutinising him, _are you sleeping with him? Does he not know who you are?_

And it horrified him that even after all of this pain, even after touching him so freely, even after imagining him so often in a thousand different states of explicit undress, that his answer would still have been _no._

_No._

…

Jesse watched him from the door.

Hanzo sat in front of the couch with his legs crossed under the coffee table, eating his lunch with a pair of ornate chopsticks, serene, unaware. He ate slowly, precisely, picking at the meal, his hair tied over his shoulder with that yellow ribbon, his brother beside him, silent as the grave the both of them. Jesse could almost see the way that their shoulders matched, the way they held their spines, raising their chopsticks to their mouths almost in unison, brothers holding each other at arm’s length, not speaking.

Jesse found himself at the edge of the room, his own kind of silent, boots removed and placed neatly in the hall so that he might move without the jingle of spurs, slinking into the room in his socks. He watched with anguish burning in his stomach, studying him like there was a thick pane of glass between them, Hanzo on one side of it, pristine and perfect, him on the other, neither of those things. All he could do was lean back on the wall, arms crossed, just outside of his periphery, and try to take it all in, try to understand how he’d come to be here, how complicated things had become.

He watched Hanzo brush a fly away from his rice with his chopsticks, mouth twisting in displeasure; he watched his eyebrows unfurl as the fly disappeared, the way he returned to the meal. It had been so easy in Portugal, so easy drunk, so easy wanting to kiss him before he’d known what it felt like, sitting pretty with easily denied proximity. And now everything was all messed up, now Hanzo was avoiding him, leaving him to smoke his morning cigarette alone for the first time in weeks, left hiding in his periphery, silent, slunk from his good graces. It felt awful, awful that he didn’t feel as comfortable as he had, that he’d had to sit on the bench, slowly realising that he wasn’t coming; that he missed the sound of his voice after only twenty four hours.

He didn’t know if Hanzo knew that, if he knew how Jesse could have watched him for hours on end without ever getting bored, could have felt contented just being allowed to exist in his vicinity. He delighted in every glance he was spared, every off-hand participation, every touch, every comfort. Everyday his face grew more beautiful to him, his voice purring all the more in his ears; every day that passed he became more imbedded in his thinking than the day before. It was his eyelashes, his elbows, his shoulder blades, fingers and all, everything about him took Jesse out at the knees, a sucker punch to the throat, hitting the ground with the impact a folding chair to the back of his head.

He rubbed his hand over his mouth, pushing at his own beard as he gazed, because Hanzo was swiftly becoming beloved, imperfections becoming invalid. And there was nothing he could do to stop it.

But he knew that it couldn’t last, eyes suddenly flickering away. It never did. He’d never been dealt a generous hand in his life, and he was just a pit stop in Hanzo’s life, a side character. He shouldn’t get so melodramatic. He needed to stop acting like a teenager, running his hand noiselessly through his hair, ruffling it like he was trying to slap himself awake, reset, desperately trying to convince himself that he was just a bit touch starved, just a bit hungry, just a bit horny.

He just needed to stop.

Just stop everything.

Stop all this pinning, all this hanging around, following him, finding him, cawing for his attention, calling him names like that fucking meant something. As though calling him a sweetheart might make him one. He needed to stop rummaging around in his all his charms, scraping the bottom of the barrel to startle him into blushing, into touching him, into forgetting all the reasons why this was stupid. Why Jesse was so fucking stupid. He just needed to stop. If Hanzo wanted him gone, he’d be gone.

He slipped wordlessly out the room, hoping they’d never know he was there, boots snatched form the hall, muttering, pinned somewhere between bitter and hurting, knowing that if he passed a window he’d break the glass in frustration.

…

Jesse’s eyes flickered over Genji’s face as they entered, dismissive, midway through a sentence, talking to Ana, but the second that his gaze landed on Hanzo it snapped away so quickly it was like falling through a trapdoor with no warning, like a baseball bat right to his stomach. He watched Jesse stutter out the end of his sentence, shoulders rigid, eyes frozen on Ana as if people were going to start pulling weapons on him if he dared look over again. Hanzo stared at him, aghast, mournful, any hope that Jesse had just been biding his time before seeking him out dashed. It was so much worse to know that this whole time Jesse had been just as aware of the distance between them as Hanzo had, that he’d put it there on purpose.

Genji ambled further into the rec room without him, indifferent to the way Hanzo had stopped in his tracks, watching Jesse fumbling for some excuse to leave, some explanation he could offer Ana. Hanzo could see it in his eyes, the way some survival instinct had kicked in, some impartial desire to flee taking ahold of his limbs.

Pain squirmed around in his chest, swallowing the lump in his throat, the feeling of betrayal that filled him, the sense of abandonment. Jesse didn’t look at him, and the pain of it was brutal, knowing something much have changed since the safe house, that Jesse had gone from wanting his arms around him to slipping from the room the moment he entered, from wanting his hands on his skin to keeping his eyes on the floor. He’d seemed comforted by him before, in the embrace of the safe house sheets, by the meagre generosities even he could offer, but now he was the exact opposite of soothed by him, back being the eggshells under his boots.

Hanzo didn’t know what he’d done, but he knew that he must have fumbled, knew that fragile things had fallen, that he hadn’t been careful enough.

He could feel himself suspended in the doorway, stuck somewhere between revulsion and despair, between wanting to dash out of the room and tackle him to the ground. But he stayed still, forever suspended between staying and going, fearing and beginning.

At least Jesse would have to walk past him as he left.

At least he might spare him a goddamn glance.

He didn’t, just left, muttering a brief, “G’afternoon, Hanzo,” before he slipped out the door. _Hanzo_. As though that was how he usually addressed him. He might as well have pulled him in close and thrust a blade under his ribs before he left, wouldn’t have done as much damage as to the listen to the door closing behind him.

He could feel his shoulders growing concave, like his chest was being carved out from the inside, caving in on himself. He rubbed a hand over his face, rubbing at his eyes, exhaustion buried in his ribs, a kind of mourning, aimless discontentment roaming around his insides. It seemed that it didn’t matter what he did, didn’t matter whether he came to firm conclusions or stayed suspended, delicate things always ended up slipping through his fingers, all his endeavours doomed.

Ana appeared beside him, her silver hair braided over her shoulder. He almost felt like apologising to her, apologising for her conversation cut short, her companion vanished from the room. Instead he just blinked down at her, not bothering to hide his misery, knowing she was familiar enough with turmoil not to tell his brother.

“Do you not have somewhere to be, Mr Shimada?” Her voice was firm, eye flickering pointedly over to the door Jesse had disappeared through. He stared despairing down at her, barely able to comprehend his own distress, let alone if he had anywhere to be.

“I did not think so,” he found himself muttering, one hand anchored under his arm the other holding up his head. She hummed at him, her eye narrowing, her weathered face twisting into a disapproving frown.

“Cowardice is unbecoming, Mr Shimada.”

“He’s not-” Hanzo cut himself off midway through defending Jesse from something that wasn’t aimed at him, the realisation hitting him right between the eyes. “Oh.”

“Yes,” Ana nodded beside him, fully away of the thought that had just occurred, the recalibration going on behind his eyes. “You should go.”

He was already opening the door, the word _cowardice_ burning into his skin like a brand, _cowardice, cowardice, cowardice. Such a fucking coward. Shouldn’t be so cowardly all the time. Take a goddamn fucking risk. Value something valuable, you stupid, fucking fuck._

Jesse was already half way down the empty corridor by the time Hanzo caught up to him, Ana’s words still ringing in his ears. It was a horrifying thing to realise that he too was responsible for this, to realise that there were things he couldn’t ask of Jesse if he was unwilling to do them himself and it made his blood boil. He’d spent the whole day waiting for Jesse to do something, waiting for someone else to take the reins, certain that if he made choices they’d be all the wrong ones. But he was in movement, momentum carrying him forward, his brother left rifling through cupboards in the rec room, Ana promising that there was no place for him in a stalemate.

“ _Jesse!_ ” His voice came out like a hiss, forcing it out through his teeth, rage and anxiety and longing thrashing through him. Jesse tripped forward like Hanzo had pushed him from behind, head ducking, his balance needing to be regained. Before Hanzo could hesitate, before he could start thinking this through he found himself rounding him, his fingers finding his collar and shoving him with as much force as he had in him against the nearest wall. He felt Jesse’s sharpe intake of breath more than he heard it, but he was too full of energy to care, so full of power like a battery overcharged, needing to get rid of it all, vent all this fear.

“What the fuck are you avoiding me for?”

Jesse stared down at him, pressed flat against the wall as if he was desperately trying to keep distance where there wasn’t any, as if Hanzo was going to go for his throat, rip out his perfect jugular with his teeth. He might.

“I thought you _wanted_ me to,” his voice was tight, startled, swallowing thickly. Hanzo snarled up at him, only able to translate his fear into anger, so terrified that Jesse was never going to look at him again that it came out like a blind sort of violence, knowing that something bad was happening, something he desperately wanted to prevent.

“Why the fuck would you think that?” He found himself holding a little tighter onto Jesse’s collar, pressing him a little harder into the wall, like he could force the words out of him.

Jesse squinted down at him, eyebrows together as though he didn’t understand the question, didn’t understand how Hanzo couldn’t have already known the answer.

“Because... because you disappeared the _second_ we got home,” his hand gestured frantically around him, “Because you didn’t come this morning. I waited for fuckin’ ages, and you _never_ came,” his voice was getting hard, his accent more pronounced, frustration starting to leak through, “‘cause when we are in a room together you’re lookin’ at me like I just drop kicked a newborn,” Jesse growled down at him, standing a bit taller, suddenly looming over him, “what is it, Hanzo? Whadya even want from me?”

Hanzo faltered, affronted, eyes slipping from his face, from his reddening cheeks, his lit up eyes.

_What do you even want from me?_

What do you even want from him?

He… he wanted to go back to Portugal.

He wanted to have kissed him earlier, wanted to have kissed him by the firelight, to do it all again and do it better, harder, firmer, lovelier, the way he would have done it if he’d been less of a coward. He wanted to know precisely the feeling of his hands in his hair, he wanted Jesse’s hand to come to rest on his hip, he wanted to drag him out of the Watchpoint and find him again in a hotel room. Wanted to strip his body of all his former selves, all his histories and all his futures, wanted to kiss him like he’d never done anything else, like he’d been born looking at him, delighted by him.

He wanted Jesse to come unspooled against him, wanted to discover and rediscover all his sensitivities, what might make him sing, nails running along the trails of his skin, feel him moving, breathing, just some goddamn friction. And after that, he wanted sleep, to bury into the nearest available sheets, Jesse’s arms around him, holding him so that he could rest, sleeping off an afterglow he was certain would taste so sweet.

His eyes drifted, his conviction slipping after from him.

“I…” and he knew that this was his opportunity, this was the moment where he could let his fingers loosen from Jesse’s collar, where he could smooth his shirt back into place and recede like he’d never been there at all, let it all come to its natural, tragic end. He stared at his hands and waited for them to move, waited for his parting words to come. They never came, unable to hold onto his thoughts of leaving no matter how hard he tried. “I… I am always thinking of you,” he whispered, eyebrows meeting, Jesse unbreathing beneath his knuckles, Hanzo unable to look at him, barely able to summon any firmness to his voice. “I was being cowardly, I am sorry for that.”

There was silence from above him, and he could feel every bone he had held, like he was made of ropes on the verge of snapping, held tight and still. His eyes flickered upward as he felt Jesse’s breath ghost over his face, felt his hand come to his cheek, slow, warm contact, blissful, sending heat through him. It was a kind of kindness for Jesse just to touch him, just to look at him.

“You gotta tell me if you want me to stop,” he muttered. 

His eyes were already closed by the time Jesse reached down to him, his lips cautious on him, gently pressing against his mouth. And this whole time he’d been imagining what it would feel like to kiss the tension from his shoulders, to remind him that he was loved each morning, what it would be like to feel him melt against his chest, but it was Hanzo. He melted against him, pressing into the kiss, Jesse’s heartbeat fluttering behind his knuckles, his own like a brass band in his ears.

He melted.

And Jesse withdrew a touch, pressing a kiss the corner of his mouth, rubbing their foreheads together, hand moving to the back of his neck, pulling him in, nuzzling against the side of his face like he’d done in their safe house.

“I didn’t want to hassle ya,” he whispered against his cheek, quiet, as though if he spoke too loud he might break whatever this was, “didn’t think you wanted me here.”

“Oh, Jesse,” Hanzo breathed, the wound opening in his stomach drawing the words out of him as he exhaled, knowing that he’d never had something precious like this before, knowing that Jesse was a delicate, valuable thing, something that could hurt him so badly, but that he never wanted to leave. He was as light as clouds, weighed down only by his desire to be kissed again, to kiss him back. He was brand new and heartless standing in the hall with him, reaching up, fingers creaking to life from Jesse’s wrinkled collar to his cheeks, feeling the course scruff of his beard beneath his hands, bathed in a deluded euphoria.

Hanzo kissed him, eyes slipped closed, pulling at Jesse’s jaw, bringing him in close, as gentle as he’d ever been with anyone, kissing the corners of his mouth one at a time and back again, small and brief. He kissed his cheeks, his eyes, his jaw. To assure him, comfort him, remind him that he was loved. Even by a man as incapable of such a thing as himself.

It was him that had made the miracles happen.

It was all him, leaning his head down to him so that his temples could be kissed. Soothed, proving that there could be comfort in the vulnerability

Hanzo felt Jesse’s thumb moving back and forth over the soft skin just behind his ear, felt him guiding their lips back together, his eyes closed so that there was only this this feeling, so that they could untangle each other in a private universe of two, nothing complex, nothing unclear. It was so easy to wrap his arms around his shoulders, up on the toes of his boots, so easy to let the hunger retake him, so easy to feel the worry disparate, to go about kissing Jesse like there was a clock on the wall, counting down these precious minutes.

Determined, needy, he pressed forward, pulling his head down to him, running a ragged hand through his hair. He hummed with lust, with the desire to go for the sweet spots at his throat, to run hands down his body in the hopes that he might shiver. But instead, he ran his tongue across Jesse’s bottom lip and savoured the shudder that rolled through his body, the way this his mouth opened to him, holding him tighter. And this was ridiculous, this teenage ferocity, but he deepened the kiss, pressing him harder into the wall, wanting more of this feeling, more of his warmth, his skin, his mouth, he wanted it all.

His time had never stopped being finite, everything he did with Jesse had a deadline, it all had to end. But he wanted to get his fill, wanted to map the inside of his mouth, his hair, his cheekbones under his fingers. He never wanted to be left wondering what some part of him might have felt like.

He pressed their bodies together, flicking his tongue against Jesse’s, trying to feel closer to him, trying to figure out if he tasted like honey or treacle. Jesse pressed back, hand at his neck to bring him in, leaning down to him and pulling him up simultaneously. His mouth moved against him, leaving a trail of kisses along his jaw, Hanzo leaning all his weight against him, pressure starting to grow in his groin, hot and loud. Jesse’s mouth sucked at his skin, his neck going limp in his hand, leaning his head back as he felt teeth against the tender skin of his throat. Hanzo’s hands were limp between them as he was kissed, covered in touches, even as Jesse’s lips moved breathlessly, nipping gently at his jaw, languid and hot. There was an exploration between them, a sort of starvation, Hanzo’s hands slipping down to his stomach, to the firm muscles beneath his shirt, where his skin was hot to the touch, so much of him still yet to be studied, all his freckles needing to be memorised.

Jesse nibbled on his ear, nose buried in his hair, and electricity sang through his veins like a shock of ice, intense, a tiny hiss escaping him, eyes shooting open, his fingers suddenly gripping onto Jesse’s shirt. Almost experimentally, Jesse did it again, his tongue against the spine of his ear, the gentle scrape of teeth, and again it sent shockwaves through him, sent him melting against his chest, sent heat pooling in his groin, pressing himself against Jesse’s hips like he was depraved, a quiet moan leaking out of his mouth.

If Jesse kept kissing him like that things were going to escalate, right there in the hall, he could feel it.

He wanted it.

“Didn’t realise it’d be so easy to get you so ruffled,” Jesse laughed against his skin, suddenly so sensitive that just the feeling of his breath sent tremors through him.

“Shut up.”

Jesse kissed his jaw, arm winding around his waist, holding him still, hand flat and firm against the small of his back, knee between his legs. Hanzo’s fingers were tangled in the shirt at his belly, nose buried in his shoulder, mind spinning, heart still beating rapidly in his chest. Jesse nuzzled into his neck, all gentle and tender, blindly affectionate. That way that Jesse didn’t even need to think about, that way that he was designed for.

“Let me make you dinner,” he murmured against his skin, hand moving up and down his back, pressure over the fabric of his shirt like Jesse knew he was flame needing to be fanned.

“You have one arm,” he whispered.

“Let me buy you take out then.”

Hanzo gave a breathy laugh. He could have suggested that they sail around the world in a tin basin and he would have agreed to it. As long as they were in the tin basin together.

“Okay,” his voice quivered more than it should have, and he felt the vibrations of Jesse’s chuckle.

“Come to my room at eight, I’ll treat you to it.”

He just nodded, not even considering the fact that he had no idea where Jesse’s room was. The longer he felt Jesse’s breath on his skin, the longer Jesse’s fingers stroked down his spine, the less thoughtful he became.

Jesse made him stupid in the most beautiful way.

…

He found Reyes leaning against the wall on the edge of the runway smoking a cigarette as the day came to an end around them, blinking slowly at him as he entered his periphery.

“Wha’do you need, son?” Reyes blew smoke out of the corner of his mouth as he spoke, observing him with his head tilted back, dragging his eyes from his boots to his shoulders, scathing tone to his voice.

Every time they spoke Hanzo felt as though he was standing on Reyes’ porch asking if Jesse could come and play, knowing that he was no longer a burden carried in crisis, but a burden carried in mediocrity, having proved himself deadly, but only at the best of times.

He held up Jesse’s hat.

“Lieutenant McCree left this with me,” he refused to mention the circumstances, “I would like to return it to him before tomorrow. Where are his quarters?”

Reyes chuckled at him.

“If you keep calling him that, it’ll go straight to his head,” Reyes murmured, taking a long drag on his cigarette, the same Jesse smoked. Hanzo narrowed his eyes at him.

“His room. Please.” He tried to make his voice firm, his intentions honourable. He had somewhere to be, he wasn’t going to be made late, not by Reyes. Reyes almost smiled at him.

“Second floor, officer's building,” Reyes blew the smoke out of his mouth, eyes half lidded, “Right on the cliff, likes the sunshine.”

And Hanzo wanted to answer that he knew, he knew that Jesse liked the sunshine, knew that he liked his coffee black in the morning, but with milk and sugar by lunch, knew that he wore a hat to hide his sensitive eyes from the sun. He knew that he was partial to a mid-afternoon nap, that he always slept in after drinking the night before, that he'd watch birds if they were around, that he was a good man, that of all the places Hanzo wanted to be, none compelled him stronger than Jesse's bed. 

Instead he just nodded, slow and careful, and made for the officer's building, knowing no more blissful a feeling than knowing Jesse was waiting for him. 

 

 

 

* * *

 

Bonus:

Gabe lay back on Jack’s stomach, resting his head on his chest, whatever Jack had been holding fell out of his hands as he began to run idle fingers through his hair, in bed in their shared quarters. Gabe stared at the ceiling, still warm from his shower, steam rising off his arms.

“I have a hunch.”

Jack hummed beneath him, contentedly running his fingernails along his scalp.

“Yeah?”

“I think Jess’s sleeping with that Shimada.”

“The older one?”

“Yeah.”

“Well… that’s nice for him.”

Gabe paused, blinking slowly, still dull from heat and steam.

“I think I’m supposed to threaten him or something.”

Jack stroked at his forehead.

“Thats not how I’m going to get grandbabies.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> McCree: I don't want to talk about it  
> Ana: that's fine, dearie. 
> 
> Hanzo: I don't want to talk about it.  
> Ana: Tough titties, my dude, get with the program


	13. A Private Universe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so this is the smut chapter. Get ready for some fucking DICKs. 
> 
> Also, I fucking finally made a McHanzo Tumblr which I've been meaning to do forever, cause I write them a lot, but mostly little stuff that I'd never publish here, so if you're interested check the bad boy out, https://spursandstars.tumblr.com

His quarters were exactly where Reyes had said they’d be, hanging over the cliff, a full two buildings over, this corridor scarcely different to his own. He stared at the post-it note Jesse must have stuck to his door, talking to everyone but him. _Busy tonight._ He picked apart each letter with narrowed eyes, analysing and over-analysing the slope of his handwriting, imagining him saying the words out loud, the way his mouth would move around the syllables, the way his accent would smooth them down like rocks in a river bed.

He ran a ragged hand though his hair.

He wasn’t designed for this, this didn’t match his skill set at all.

He’d spent hours on rooftops in the freezing cold, squinting through a scope; he could mix poisons from kitchen goods, could place an arrow through a man’s eye socket from five hundred yards. But to stand in front of Jesse’s door in a hastily ironed shirt, the first few buttons undone to show off his collarbones, his hair tucked behind his ears, it was like stripping himself down to his bones, knowing that he wouldn't be able to play it off as just fucking, just alleviating the boredom, once it was done. Knowing that Jesse would see him, and know like he did that it was all so much harsher than that, so much worse, intense and burning at the back of his skull. 

Still, he was long past thinking that he wouldn’t end up exactly where he’d said he’d be. He’d never felt confident in this, never felt solid, but even with his ineptitudes he always trailed back to wherever Jesse was, haunted.

He breathed deeply, and knocked, knuckles against the metal of his door, trying to feel settled, trying to swallow the anxiety that spiked when he heard a shuffle from inside. He straightened his shoulders, raised his chin, perhaps not raised to be gentle with valuable things, but at least he was polite. At least he could offer Jesse his composure, if nothing else, for the time being. The door slid open and his heart shot into his throat as if he hadn’t been expecting it to do that.

Before he knew it, Jesse was smiling at him, and his shoulders were sagging with relief, halfway through a sigh just at the sight of him, exhaling the tension.

_Thank god, it’s you,_ he thought. 

Jesse’s eyes on him was like spending hours underwater, gasping saltwater into his lungs, the pressure building and building until he found sand under his fingers, dragging himself up a beach, breathing again beneath the sun, suddenly able to rest again, let his heart sink back down into his chest. Hanzo could have thrown his arms around him like it was nothing, like he hadn’t sworn off physical affection a decade ago, only to have the desire for it roar up in him like a tidal wave crashing over his head, smothering all fires but one.

“Good evenin’, Hanzo,” Jesse’s grin was slow and easy, leaning forward to kiss his cheek, hand on his arm. Old fashioned manners. And it was nothing, chaste and brief, beard scraping softly at his jaw, nothing like in the hallway. But it was a quiet reminder, a quiet assurance that he hadn’t imagined it, that he’d said the words, knowing that, in the end, he’d slam Jesse up against a thousand walls, if it meant getting back under his eyes, breathing again.

“Good evening, Jesse,” his voice was so level that it surprised even him and Jesse withdrew, smiling at him, soft and dressed in Hanzo’s favourite flannel and his faded jeans, belt buckle and all. As if he knew how much Hanzo liked him in these clothes. “I have your hat.” He held it between them, enjoying the way Jesse’s eyes brightened at the sight of it.

“Ah, you’re a peach,” Jesse beckoned him in from the corridor, hand on the small of his back to guide him in, the door sliding closed behind them, shutting out the icy white light of the hall as he was brought into the warm orange glow of Jesse’s quarters, perfect and human. It was like stepping into a private universe, a pocket of light, a careful reproduction of something beautiful, a set stage of comforts, Jesse having designed it for no one but himself, and he was stilled at the sight of it, warmth spreading through his chest. 

It was almost as big as his old apartment, a studio, set up like a chessboard, so that he could amble from area to area. There was a small kitchen, a breakfast table, and a living area, an elderly couch and a television mounted on the wall. A bed. It was hard to take in so much at once, to take in all the little important details, to go from the spotless corridor to Jesse’s quarters. Everything was so textured, so unique, sketches done on napkins, bottle caps in a jar, post-it note reminders, and things he must have brought from home. Items only of comfort, no physical purpose performed. 

He inched further in, shoes left by the door, Jesse gone from his side with his hat in hand, into the kitchen.

He found his brother’s eyes in a collage of photos, laughing, playing cards in his hands. He peered at them while Jesse set out glasses on the counter. There were so many of them, faces he recognised, faces he didn't. Faces that had changed, and faces that might stay the same forever, a thousand different settings, each of them treasured, all of them laughing, all halfway through a joke, wrapped up in something else, caught at their happiest point and stuck on Jesse’s wall, immortalised.

A strange warmth sat in his belly at the sight, strangely honoured to share in his private universe, invited into a hidden space, not a safe house, not a hotel, not a Watchpoint bench, offered the opportunity to eat with him in his den, _his_ den. He got the feeling it wasn’t something happened very often, not often frequented by people who weren't Jesse. Hanzo ran an idle hand over the back of the couch, over a soft quilt, noticing pizza boxes on the counter, bottles of beer dug out of the fridge, gazing over the furniture, nothing hard edged, nothing brutal, and smiled.

He figured he’d have no problem sinking into these sheets, certain that he would sleep well, satisfied, warm, shameless. He could rest here, in Jesse’s den, his arms around him, in his bed, full up on his food, on his skin, on his warmth. Like a cat on sun-hot stone.

He could get used to this, he'd allow this. 

…

“But why did Clint Eastwood not just take all the gold? He clearly didn’t think that the other man should have it.”

Jesse ran his hand up his ankle, Hanzo’s feet in his lap as the credits rolled, smiling, canines pointing out of mouth. There was no way that he knew how Hanzo could have sat like this forever, could have fallen asleep with his hands on his skin and never awoken just as long as Jesse didn’t move. His touch wasn’t even sexual, not even designed to rile him; just small, affectionate, familiar. He sunbathed in the bliss of it.

“Because he’s the good, and Tuco’s just the ugly.” Jesse smiled at him from the other end of the couch, “there’s no virtue in killin’ a man that ain’t evil, just greedy.”

Hanzo gazed at him, senseless, as relaxed as he’d ever been in his whole life, lying there on the couch, full up on some daft western that Jesse loved, Jesse touching him, looking at him like he was the only person in the world, like he was made of stars. Made him feel as though he was made of stars. Jesse looked at him as though he was good, and new, bathed him in attention, adoration, unknowing of the effect, how long he’d gone without a gaze like that.

He sat up slowly, shifting his weight, eyes not leaving him, smiling at him, because he was beautiful, lovely, delightful, achingly soft.

In the hall, Hanzo had been nothing but frenzied, almost panicked, but Jesse’s daft western, the food, the simple pleasure of being in the same room as him, had put all his anxious parts to sleep. In this moment, as he leaned forward, Jesse’s eyes on him, there was no future, no past. He’d made no great mistakes, there would be no hurdles, there was no ending anymore and he could live in this night forever, retire on this couch with the credits rolling. Or at least he could bide his time.

He swung on leg over Jesse’s knees and straddled him, hands on his shoulders, serious and steady, no part of him frayed or faltered. He was done being cowardly.

Jesse’s eyes watched him as he lowered himself down to his throat, to the skin between his jaw and his collar, freshly shaved, smelling like honey and soap. He felt Jesse’s hand land on his hip, stroking up and down his thigh, moving his head so that Hanzo could press his lips to his throat.

“I,” Hanzo whispered against him, “am a greedy man.”

Jesse laughed beneath him, not knowing how true it was, Hanzo’s hand against his chest so that he could feel the vibration.

“Sugar,” he breathed, “if you want gold, baby, I’ll get you gold.”

Hanzo smiled against his throat, not kissing him, not quite, his other hand reaching up into his hair.

“You’ll do,” he whispered, and Jesse kissed him, tugging him out from behind his ear and kissing him, hard, pulled down by the front of his shirt. And Hanzo kissed him right back, hand on the back of his neck, pressing himself against him, fervent, ferocious, whatever. Because he was so ready, and he was so tired, and he just wanted to fall now. Fall into this, into him, into the person he was in this room, stripped of his history, of his inevitable doom.

Jesse’s tongue slipped into his mouth, deepening the kiss, leaning upwards against Hanzo’s lips. And this had never mattered to him so much, to have someone’s tongue in his mouth, hand on his waist. It had never mattered to him what cheek was under his hand, it was never personal. But kissing Jesse was a love letter to the person he could have been, to the person that could have lived like this, kissing Jesse was a dare, a hope to a universe that hadn’t proved itself honourable yet. _I dare you to take this away from me. I hope that you won’t._

His hand found Jesse’s soft hair, and it was so simple to drag his head back, opening him like he was a gift, someone to push up against, as real in this world as he would be in the next. And really, Jesse was just some soft-hearted country boy, Hanzo could see it in his eyes. A man chronically far from home, as far flung and wayward as he was. There was nothing that Hanzo could fear in him.

“Are you really sure?” Jesse gasped away from him, so determined not to be doing harm, as though his hand wasn’t already halfway under his shirt, sending shivers up his spine. On the other hand, he liked how he got asked, laughing, taking a larger clump of hair in his hand, he yanked his head back, almost roughly.

“Yes, I’m really sure,” he purred, and bit down hard on his throat.

Jesse shuddered beneath him.

…

Hanzo pushed him down onto the bed and crawled over him, straddling his hips, both of them having lost their shirts, Jesse unable to move beneath his weight, barely able to keep track of his own breathing. Hanzo’s hand pinned his wrist to the bed, teeth at his collarbone in a half second flat, grinding downwards with singular purpose. He sent electricity through him, from the fingers running up and down his ribs, to his hips pressing down on his groin, sucking dangerously at his neck, sending him arching upwards, writhing beneath him. Hanzo licked at the shallow bite marks on his throat, sucking roughly, and he hissed through gritted teeth, half way through a gasp before he could stop it. He felt Hanzo hum into his skin in approval, his hand rubbing down his side, over the scars he must have already known were there, warm and firm against his skin.

“Darlin,” he found himself gasping, “you’re gonna send me nuts like this-”

Hanzo palmed his cock, rough and sudden, through his jeans and that shut him up like nothing else, cutting himself off with a moan he hadn’t meant to let out.

“Hush,” he felt Hanzo’s lips moving against his skin, and it sent tremors through his body, intoxicated, shivering against him.

Hanzo was laughing at him, and he’d never known that he could want something so badly, that he could be this delirious for another person, for his body, his eyes, his ass. He was burning for him, smouldering from the inside out, obsessed with the feeling of Hanzo’s hand on his cock even from through two layers of fabric, obsessed with the feeling of him in his bed, on top of him, his mouth on his throat, the smell of his sweet skin.

But he wanted more, he wanted so much more, as much as he could get, he wanted to see him on his back and at least a little bit helpless, wanted to feel him jut and writhe, his hair in a tangle on the pillow, on his pillow, in his bed.

Hanzo stroked his cock over his clothes, and if he’d had any sense, it left him.

…

Jesse’s hand wrenched itself from his grasp, landing against his belly with a speed Hanzo hadn’t realised he was capable of, throwing him off, growling like a feral thing, deep and guttural. And before he knew it, his back was against the mattress and Jesse was on top of him, hips between his legs, hand on his knee, keeping his legs open. He knelt on the bed, leaning over him, eyes scraping over his body, over his naked chest though his fringe. His breathing ragged, his eyes hungry, looking at him like he was the single sexiest thing in the world and Hanzo found himself preening, squirming under his gaze, his chest puffed out, wanting nothing more than for Jesse to touch him, feel his hand on his skin.

Instead Jesse leaned down, burying his face under his jaw, and crushing his pelvis into Hanzo’s, applying desperate pressure, hand moving up the back of his thigh, over his pants. He could feel Jesse’s cock pressing into him, feel the imprint through his jeans, certain that Jesse could feel him the same, just as depraved, having been imagining this for weeks, imagining him coming unraveled by his hand.

Hanzo felt a growl reverberate out of his throat, felt how hard he was, how firm his hand, their chests together, breathing together.

“I want to fuck you.”

The words rolled over him and dug into his belly, and he could feel his cock responding to the pressure on his groin, the pressure on his chest, the pressure at his neck where Jesse nuzzled against him, purring into his skin, nipping at his jaw. His breathing was already coming ragged, his heart already pounding, but hunger flushed through him at the words, desire, hot and barely contained, shuddering violently against his skin, like a dog to the sound of dinner, his mouth started to water at the thought.

“Perfect,” he breathed, dragging out the word, voice raspy, Jesse’s hair on his cheek, teeth on his skin, marking him back. He felt Jesse’s hand slipping around the front of his thigh, from his leg to his belt, tugging at the buckle, grinding down on his groin, kissing his neck. And it was nothing like he’d imagined, all of it so solid, so warm, so _real,_ knowing now that his skin tasted so human, salty and sweet, that his touch could set him on fire and he’d happily burn. That every time he gasped into his ear, it took everything he had in him not to just rut against him until he came in his clothes, all pressed against his body.

In some flurry of movement, Jesse sat up from his throat, eyes alight, a sheen of sweat over his chest, and his pants went flying over Jesse’s shoulder, before swiftly being shimmed out of his underwear, until he was completely naked, Jesse kneeling above him, staring at him. 

Jesse’s hand spread over his stomach, fingers quivering above his skin, Hanzo arching to meet him, to feel him move, precum starting to drip onto his abdomen from his hard cock, aching against the warm air. 

“Well,” Jesse drawled softly from above, “ain’t you just the prettiest thing I have ever seen.” And hunger bloomed in him again, delight, shivering under his gaze, Jesse looking at him like he was made of gold, the object of all his lust, burning hot inside of him. And it thrilled him, thrilled him the way his hand was moving over his stomach, the way Jesse was leaning down again to kiss him, fingers dancing down his thigh and back again.

As his hand wrapped around his cock, the sound that came out of him was nothing dignified, rough and gasping, Jesse’s hair against his cheek. The contact hit him like a coal train, the feeling of Jesse’s fingers on the tender skin, stroking slowly from the base to the tip, slipping through his fingers while he writhed and jerked, fucking himself into Jesse’s hand, one hand fisted in the sheets, the other leaving claw marks on Jesse’s shoulder.

“Not too soon, sugar,” Jesse purred, mouth against his ear in a way he knew got to him, sent him shaking into the sheets, reduced to a hissing, gasping mess. “There are lots of things I wanna do to you.” Jesse’s hand was firm on his cock, teasing him, laughing like honey into his ear.

“Fucking do it then,” he hissed, knowing nothing, but that he hoped there would be no end to this.

With a chuckle, Jesse dragged himself down his body, his eyes sparkling, positioning himself pointedly between his legs, his elbow up on thigh, nose half buried in his pubic hair, eyes on him, Hanzo’s breath catching in his throat.

From his crotch, Jesse winked at him and kissed his cock, almost sending him into convulsions as the sight, eyes unfocusing as he started to feel Jesse’s mouth moving along the shaft, sucking almost tentatively at him, his tongue against the skin, wet with precum and saliva. He mapped him with his mouth, dragging his tongue up the shaft, maintaining eye contact like the bastard he was, covering him in deliberate kisses, just enough to keep him from coming into his mouth, his hips bucking against his lips, sweat rolling from his forehead, jaw clenched.

He gasped as he felt Jesse finger at his hole, prodding gently at him, his eyes slipped closed, his legs widening a little further for him, more contact, more attention, he wanted it. Jesse’s mouth moved up and down his shaft, lapping at him, and one of his fingers very slowly entered him. It was hardly necessary, he’d prepared himself, he’d come to the door expecting this, wanting this. But it felt so good to be touched, so lovingly coaxed into pleasure, all his moans honest, all his awe clear. 

Jesse’s fingers pressed against his prostate and he shuddered like tarmac in an earthquake. Jesse was finding an easy rhythm between his legs, almost lazy, licking his cock, watching him shift and writhe, easing another finger inside of him, stretching him out, unhurried as Hanzo panted, hands fisted in the sheets.

Once Jesse got three fingers in him, and his cock was so hard and so well acquainted with the inside of his cheek that it hurt, Jesse left him. He took everything back, leaning over him to kiss him once, hard, hand pulling at his neck, his lips salty and sweet, sucking on his bottom lip like a dare and clambering off him, left him mewling in the absence , cold in the sheets. 

But he was back a half second later, condom between his teeth, kicking off his jeans, stripped down to only his skin. Hanzo watched him from the bed and he was so beautiful, his hips, his chest, his ankles, his cock.

He was... handsomely endowed, fat and thick and hard, delightful.

And there were few times that Hanzo had ever looked at a cock and thought ‘I want _that_ inside of me,’ it wasn’t really the role he played. But when it was Jesse, he had never wanted anything more. He wanted to touch it, feel it in his hand, unravel him the way Hanzo had been unravelled. He tried to sit up, reaching out, but Jesse pushed him back as if it was effortless, firmly clambering back over him, wrenching his legs back open. His hands were shaking, teeth ripping at the condom packet and rolling it down his cock, plastic wrapper flicked away. Hanzo watched, heart fluttering in his chest, watched Jesse position himself before his open legs, feeling the tip of it against his entrance. Jesse hovered over him, silhouetted with the light behind him. Their eyes met, and he could see the hunger in him, his desire to devour. He hoped that Jesse could only half fathom his desire to be devoured.

“You'll tell me if it hurts, yeah?”

And he liked being asked, enjoyed the concern, but he was done with that now. He felt his eyebrows furrow. 

“Just fucking fuck me, Jesse.” He had never sounded less authoritarian in his life, but Jesse grinned breathlessly at him, hand on his thigh, eyes alight like campfires, bringing one of Hanzo’s legs to his shoulder, widening him out, kissing his calf.

“Oh, darlin’,” he purred into his skin, “thats all you had to say.” He didn’t even take a moment to position himself, just pressed inside of him in one fluid movement, thrusting deep and sudden, all the air pushed out of his lungs, their hips flush, suddenly so incredibly close. Hanzo almost fainted, a strangled gasp getting past his lips, eyes flung open, Jesse between his legs, so hot, so  hot. His heartbeat was in his ears like a brass band, his body trying to come to terms the impact, the force of his hips, his cock, solid inside of him, suffocating him from the inside out, the pleasure of it forcing the air out of his lungs, his head flung back in ecstasy.

It hit him like a brick wall, the pleasure, the arousal, the lustful sounds leaking passed his lips as his nails found the skin of his own palms. He was blanketed in it, surrounded by it, molten against his skin, eyes halfway into the back of his head, his head empty except for the knowledge that it was good, that it was so good and it was going to send him mad. It only got worse as Jesse drew back and did it again, seeming to pull Hanzo’s insides out with him, only to slam them back in again with fireworks of heat, pooling in his groin. As he started to move, Hanzo started to drool, clinging onto him, legs locked around his hips, barely lucid, his whole body moving with Jesse’s, one hand launching upwards as he tried to anchor himself on the headboard with each thrust.

For all the talk, he could see Jesse half bent over him, gasping raggedly, eyes squeezed closed, moaning as he fucked him, Hanzo’s leg in his arm, his hand on his thigh, holding onto him like fucking Hanzo was all that was keeping him alive, thrusting in and out of him with breathless desperation. It thrilled him.

He could feel McCree getting bigger inside of him, feel him growing more rabid, watching him drop his leg and crawl over him, thrusting in and out of him as he went, burying his face in his neck like needed more skin, more heat, sucking it out of him as Hanzo failed to focus his eyes, drunk on the feeling of him moving inside of him, incoherent moans coaxed out of his mouth. He fucked him until his whole body was shaking, both of their bodies shaking, drool leaking out the corner of his mouth, covered in sweat.

“Hanzo,” he whispered, lapping at the bite marks at his throat, “Jesus, Hanzo.” Jesse’s cock pressed against his prostrate as he thrusted and he lost his mind, convulsing beneath him, maddened and enthralled by this, by the fact that it had never felt so good before. Drool dribbled down his cheek from the corner of his mouth, hand in Jesse’s hair on his shoulder, as hot and sweaty as he was. 

“Call me,” he rasped, “call me names.” And there was nothing Jesse wouldn’t do for him, he knew it all of a sudden, pounding into him like he meant to shake the building, sucking at his collarbone, overwhelmed with lust.

“Sweetheart,” Jesse whispered, “darlin’, sweetpea, pumpkin,” he rattled on, babbling incessantly against his cheek, the pressure building between them, “I’m so close, darlin’.” And it was so overwhelming, his cock rubbing up against Jesse’s stomach, the skin to skin friction, the way Jesse fucked him as if he meant to etch himself into his skin, sink so far in that Hanzo might have to remember him forever.

The pressure built around him, inside of him, as Jesse began to hit all his sensitive spots, his moans getting louder and louder as Jesse went deeper and harder and faster, everything starting to haze inwards, blur together into a hurricane of sensation, burning. Jesse’s lips whispering against him, his movements getting more and more frantic, Hanzo’s hand wrapping around his cock, shaking so hard he could barely maintain the contact, eyes glazed over, Jesse’s breathing hot against his skin, panting, quivering as he got closer to coming, Jesse molten inside of him, pressing against him.

“ _Cariño,”_ Jesse murmured, _“mi amor, dulzura_ , beautiful, _mi corazón_ , so… fuckin’ perfect.” It was hard to tell if he got past _fuckin’ perfect_ before he came, if he was silenced by his orgasm, or if Hanzo was deafened by his own. Jesse fucked him ruthlessly through it, hot and gasping into his skin, enveloped by a blinding light, spots behind his eyes. It came in waves, sudden and swallowing, somewhere between drowning and breathing for the first time, rolling over him, Jesse thrusting in and out of him as he rode it out, merciless as Hanzo orgasmed, seizing beneath him, shaking, heart beating so strong he feared he might pass out, until they were just shuddering against each other, covered in Hanzo’s cum, sweat, and a sudden warm exhaustion. He could almost feel the strength slipping out of Jesse as his hips slowed, heavy on top of him, breathing hard into his neck, skin damp to the touch.

And despite himself, he found him hand stroking the back of his head, as if to reward him, his heart rate starting to settle as the afterglow started to simmer in his groin. 

"So fuckin' perfect," he heard Jesse mutter, heavy, words almost slurring as he tried to recover.  

It took a few minutes, but eventually, Jesse kissed his jaw and eased slowly out of him, throwing the condom into the bin by the bed, his chest heaving, eyes half open, collapsing down next to him, on his back. He threw an arm over Hanzo’s chest as his eyes closed, a thoughtless, protective gesture of care before he crashed downward into sleep, his breathing deepening, sweet and painless, Hanzo listening to it happen.

And he was suddenly so tired, unable to move.

…

Jesse slept like someone had hit him over the head with a brick, on his back and exhausted, still as naked as the day he was born. It was like he was trying to make up for all the sleep he’d missed the night before, trying to out-sleep his own fatigue. When he stumbled upwards somewhere in the small hours, all the lights still on, he could hardly put one baffled thought in front of the other. Hanzo slept steadily on the other side of the bed, on his side, and his chest rising and falling was the only thing Jesse could fathom as he staggered from the bedside to the bathroom. He ambled back, scratching at his belly, digging through a draw for a fresh pair of underwear, flicking off the lights.

And he was so harmless here, he could feel it in his bones, he was nothing that he’d been trained to be. He felt tired, felt safe, never further from the shattered jaws and the bullets he’d put in human skulls. He was soft and docile, standing over the bed, shattered. He could think no deep thoughts, but to love the way Hanzo had curled onto his side in his sleep, naked and bare. He was as defenceless as Jesse was, unable to keep his guard up, not after they’d shared a bed so often, finally done something honest.

Jesse collapsed back into bed beside him, half asleep, legs weak, heart light. He pressed their bodies together, wrapping his arm around Hanzo’s waist, pulling him into the crook of his body so that they were parallel lines, few parts of them not touching. He felt Hanzo stiffen against him, the quiet motions of fear, launched from sleep.

“Is’jus me,” he mumbled, kissing Hanzo’s shoulder in apology. The body against him slumped back into his chest and Hanzo’s hand found his over his stomach.

They both slipped back to sleep.

…

He woke up with the sun through Jesse’s window, and there had been a quiet part of him hoping that this might sober him, that he’d wake up and he’d be back to being empty. That this was the sort of feeling that just needed to run its course, get a certain kind of release, and then it would leave him, and he’d be free. But he woke up with Jesse’s arm around him, breath against his shoulder, and an inconvenient sense of contentment in his chest.

He could feel Jesse’s shifting as he woke, internal clock insistent, even on his sleepiest days he never missed the sunrise by much. His arm tightened for a second, squeezing him, Jesse’s face buried into his shoulder, before he began to pry himself away. And Hanzo wanted to know if this was how his life always was, this slow to rise warmth. If this was how he was every morning, before the bench, yawning and stretching. If he was always this beautiful. In his underwear, strolling towards the kitchen, making coffee, hair ruffled, Hanzo rolling over to watch him.

Hanzo could have died looking at him.

And he was so sad for it, perpetually filled with mourning in the days after nights with Jesse. Because he knew that he couldn’t stay here. He didn’t know if he would be able to leave, but he couldn’t stay. These weren’t his people, he looked at them with no familiarity, found in them no comfort. These were not his walls, not his place in the world. He was a lot of things, but he wasn’t a solider. He would not fight their battles, not even if they asked.

And it was an awful thing to see Jesse setting down their coffee cups on the bedside table and know that this memory might fade from him. That he might live fifty more years and forget about this, that this feeling had filled him, grown gardens in his bones, might become just another misremembered maybe-dream. He wanted to hold onto it, commit to it, but instead he imagined what it would look like when he let it go.

Jesse fell into bed with him as he sat up, and he’d never lived this sort of domesticity before. He’d never had coffee in bed with someone who could kiss him at any moment and he’d be fine with it. He wished he had the words to say something meaningful, wished that he could somehow convey how much he loved being here, how much his heart soared just being so close to him and so far from everything else. Without ever implying that he had it in him to stay.

Jesse handed him his coffee and he held it between his palms, mug warm against his chest and white sheets covering his lap. Together they stared out the window out to the sky and ocean, to where the sun would have risen if they’d been awake for it, shoulders pressed together. Hanzo frowned into the blue sky.

“Jesse.”

“Yeah, darlin’?”

“Why do you go to the bench if you can see the sunrise from bed?”

There was a pause, and he listened to Jesse sip his coffee, feeling the warmth of his skin against his shoulder. And he wondered what it would be like when Jesse got his new arm. When he would be able to do everything he’d done before and Hanzo’s debt would be as repaid as if ever would be, and there’d be no excuses left, no reason to stay, no reason but the truth.

Jesse hummed to himself as he pondered his answer.

“I dunno, I guess it’s because I didn’t always have this room.” Jesse scratched his beard as he thought, “back when I first came I was just sleepin’ on Gabe’s couch, still wakin’ up at dawn. Got into the habit, I guess.”

“Hmm.”

And he had a quiet part of him assigned to every hopeless hope, to every impossible situation where these weeks might restart again, and again and again, where he might be able to ride off into the sunset with McCree, ask him to come away with him. Anywhere but here.

But Jesse had been here so long, Jesse was connected more to this sunrise than to any other, here he was given a love that Hanzo could never provide, he was at home here, he was loved here. And Hanzo couldn’t ask him to leave all that, couldn’t ask him to start from scratch with a man he’d known for two months, who had stolen one of his limbs, growled at him most days. He had taken so much from Jesse, but he wouldn’t ask to be given this.

And he had hardly ever felt so crushed by the weight of his wishes and the cold reality of a life that couldn’t co-exist with Jesse in it. It was a hard thing to have something so good, something so beautiful, but know that it would abandon you if you let it.

Hanzo rested his head on Jesse’s shoulder.

“Let’s spend the day in bed,” he sighed, “you can show me another film.”

Jesse laughed, and it was the sweetest sound he’d ever heard.

“Okay, sweetpea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like this chapter because Hanzo has had to go through like seven layers of intense philosophical debate to get here, like he's got his phd in self-loathing, trying to calculate the net worth of his good deeds of late to see whether he's legally allowed to fall asleep in Jesse's bed, and Jesse's just there in the background being like he is so pretty I think I'm gonna die. 
> 
> And that's pretty much the sum total of his thoughts. 
> 
> And again, find me on Tumblr at https://spursandstars.tumblr.com


	14. An Impossible Thought

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Imma be honest, this chapter nearly killed me. 
> 
> Partially because I started late, and partially because I've decided I don't like the ending, so now I have to write a bunch of words and that shit is exhausting. Like this is the strangest voluntary hobby that I have, but I'm rolling with it. 
> 
> Also, this chapter is almost entirely JesseAngst™ and the next chapter will be almost entirely HanzoAngst™, so just be prepared for the crescendo of bad emotional literacy, and feel safe in the understanding that good things are on their way. 
> 
> In life, and in about two chapters.

_Two months later_

 

He was stagnant.

He could feel it. Like a small creature stuck in mud, a prisoner stuck in a comfortable cell, making the mistake of feeling at home in the captivity, barely even bothering to prowl the walls anymore, to look for a loose brick or a half-open window. Instead he’d spent two months slowly making his way through the paperbacks Jesse kept by his bed, spent two months lying on his couch with his feet in Jesse’s lap, two months trying to shut down the part of his brain that couldn’t live like this, that fretted. He’d spent two months living quietly, two months sleeping in his bed, two months waking up against him, hiding in their private universe, trying to pretend that the Watchpoint wasn’t still buzzing just outside the door.

Jesse never gave him a good enough reason to run, no matter the restlessness that sat like a hunger in his belly, a constant itch in his fingers, his legs, not used to staying still for so long. But whatever that hunger was, that hunger for silence, for distance, it was so beautifully overshadowed by the sense of contentment that filled his chest every time Jesse so much as smiled at him, knowing that by the time that evening came, he’d be promised his bed to sleep in, his body heat to warm him, his arm to hold him.

He tolerated the Watchpoint for that, for Jesse, for the great many short-term certainties he offered.

And for the most part, the Watchpoint tolerated him back. Reyes had only spoken to him once about it, concerning his stay. Didn’t ask him when he was going to leave, didn’t question his stagnation, his attachment. Just mentioned that if he wanted a key card for the gyms, the shooting rangers, the nicer kitchens, all he’d have to do was ask. He’d taken him up on the offer, if only to disguise the fact that he’d been using Jesse’s spare for weeks.

Hanzo watched him from where he lay on the couch as he moved, watching him amble from the kitchen table to the living room, distracted, pencil behind his ear, circles under his eyes. He’d been distracted all morning, always scratching at his beard, rubbing the back of his neck, mouthing words as he went over the folder of documents in his hand, pacing from one side of his quarters to the other since breakfast. Hanzo couldn’t bring himself to offer his help, to go over it with him, couldn’t bare the thought that he would aid this, make it easier when he’d never wanted to burn an object more in his life.

But he lifted his legs when Jesse came and sat by him, gave him the other end of the couch to brood on, one leg crossed over the other, frowning down at the folder like it was written in a language he didn’t know, designed to torture him. Hanzo watched him, barely able to keep himself from snatching it out of his fingers and throwing it across the room, distracting him, to keep from finding a way of explaining that none of this needed to end, that they could live here forever, buried in their private universe.

If he’d just pretend with him, stay stagnant with him, let him love like this, silently, wordlessly.

But there were still things that he was unable to ask for, there were still things that would be too greedy, even for him. All he could do was ready himself for the departure, try to pretend he wasn’t still getting butterflies whenever Jesse touched him, his hand landing on his foot, thoughtlessly stroking his skin, finding some part of him and holding onto it, removing his grip only so that he could turn a page.

He was a man of endless gestures, his affection pouring out of him, like it was nothing, like he didn’t even have to think about it. And Hanzo could only sit back and let himself be kissed, cared for, given gifts, complimented, adored, surrounded by constant affirmations of gentle devotion. He could only try his best to return the it, even if he had none of the words, even though he had no language for this, no way of knowing how to return his unbroken streams of affection, but to raise his cheek when Jesse moved to kiss it, but to accept the gifts and hold them dear, lean into his touch. And most days, he got away with not thinking about it, got away with only thinking as far as the evening, what excuse he might make to find himself in Jesse’s quarters, crawl into bed with him as though his body had never known how to do anything else.

Some days, it plagued him and he could think of nothing but the fact that he didn’t live here, that even his own quarters were deep in enemy territory, that even if he wasn’t certain how to live the life he’d lived before, he sure as shit wasn’t meant to live here. Even in the quiet hush of Jesse’s room, buried in his arms, sweet in the afterglow, he couldn’t avoid the fact that he was leading him on, that every time he let Jesse touch him, sought his skin, failed to mention that he couldn’t live like this, he was deceiving the man he loved, letting him believe that Hanzo might stay, unable to confront it, to say, out loud and honestly, _I love you, but I cannot stay here._

_When I leave you, I won’t say goodbye._

He wasn’t afraid of his own immorality, his own capacity for lies, for betrayal, but he didn’t want Jesse McCree in pain. It was his simplest and clearest desire, the one thing that all the parts of him could agree on.

He didn’t want Jesse McCree to be in pain.

But the folder in his hand might as well have been an eviction notice.

His stomach had sunk the moment it had appeared on Jesse’s counter, the feeling of dread crawling over his skin only worsening as he’d leafed though it. Designs for a prosthetic, the specifics of a procedure, photos of it, from the joints of the fingers, to where it would join itself to what was left of his arm, seal onto him, make him whole again. Hanzo had known it was coming, but it still knocked the breath out of him, standing at the counter, unbreathing and completely still even as Jesse had come up behind him, hand stroking down his back, looking over his shoulder.

“Good news, ain’t it?” He’d said, a barely noticeable tension to his voice, having left it there for him to find. And suddenly all his short-term certainties had seemed so shockingly short-termed, suffocating, like realising that this delightful free fall was about to come to a sudden stop. He’d hated it, bitterly, had snarled down at it, knowing that it was the ransom he’d asked for when he’d taken Jesse hostage, knowing that once it was attached Jesse would be as healed as he was ever going to be, as recovered as he was ever going to get, and Hanzo would have no excuse to stay, his debt paid.

As Jesse poured over the documents on the other end of the couch, Hanzo could only watch him, try to memorise him, take it all in and hold onto it, despair heavy in his chest, thinking that today was probably the day that all good things should end.

…

Dread had been churning in his belly all morning, only worsening once he’d started studying the folder like Gabe had told him to do, eyes raking from the harsh, brutalist paragraphs full of ten syllable medical jargon, to Angela’s damn near illegible notes. It felt like it had been hours since he’d started trying to translate the explanations she’d put in the margins for him, the crossed out words with simpler substitutes, the little exclamation points she’d put at the end of particularly exciting sentences.

He rubbed Hanzo’s foot to comfort himself as he read the same paragraph over and over. It was giving him a headache. He stared down at the photo of the prosthetic on the third page, trying to imagine what it would be like to look down at his hand and see it there, lying palm up, fingers half curled into a fist, crafted from one of his old wrist plates, the one made from brass with the deadlock skull, back when his only armour had been hand-me-downs.

Beside the photo was an arrow and a scribbled note that he could only just make out: _Gabe kept it from when you were a kid, hope you like it!_

He’d never told Gabe any specifics, but it was good, nice; nothing shiny, didn’t look new, but that just matched the rest of him, kind of scruffy, a bit borrowed, like all this time it had been living with him, weathered by the same forces, the indentation of a bullet only partially hammered out. It was a gift and he tried to receive it as such, no matter the anxiety that sat heavy somewhere in intestines, knowing that it had been made with love, to comfort him.

Beside him, he felt Hanzo stir, turning his head to watch him save his page and place the book down on the coffee table, slipping his foot from his hand as he stood, a hollow look to his eyes, almost sad, numb. He’d had that look on him for the past week, so consistent, so intense, that Jesse almost regretted telling him, almost regretted not just leaving it alone, ignoring it. So that he might just come back to his quarters one day with two arms instead of one and Hanzo would never need to know until he could hold onto him all the way around, keep him still with all four limbs.

“I should get going,” his voice was flat, rigid, pointy around the edges and Jesse’s stomach sunk further at the thought. He didn’t want him to go, didn’t want him to leave; he knew that it had been on the cards since they’d met, but it had never felt so severe before, never such a risk to let him slip away, not knowing if he’d be back.

But he knew that whatever he had with Hanzo was overdue for disaster just like he was. He could see it in Hanzo’s eyes, in the way he’d loved harder this week than others, more desperately, like a man gasping for air before a dive. And a part of him understood, a part of him had already accepted it, that come one of these days he was going to come back and Hanzo was just going to be gone, just gone, vanished without a trace. So while Hanzo gasped, he gasped also, loved harder like he loved harder. His fingernails left scratches on is skin, his teeth leaving marks on his throat, trying to find ways of loving him that he wouldn’t be able to scrub away, knowing that to say it out loud would just bring the deadline closer.

Another part of him, the part of him that was greedy and audacious and in love, scrambled after him when he stood, followed him like a puppy to the countertop, digging through his bag, silent, always so deathly silent, head slightly bowed. Jesse found himself reaching for him, fingers twitching to hold onto him, not let him slip away, pressing his face into the nape of his neck just to feel the soft skin. His arm wound around him, eyes closed, something weighty in his chest, nuzzling against his skin, breathing in the cheery blossoms, sweet and safe. Hanzo was still beneath him, as if he could feel how close Jesse was to begging through his fingertips, begging him to stay, begging him not to leave, confessing to it all, rubbing his forehead against the nape of his neck, eyes squeezed closed, fragile.

He got the feeling that this was the moment, that what had been a deadline of days were becoming hours, minutes.

“No rush,” he found himself cooing, kissing his neck with as much tenderness a man like him could muster, “no rush.” He heard Hanzo sigh, felt his body move with the action, the way he pushed out his breath, his shoulders lowering. He turned in his arm, hands reaching up to his cheeks, his gentle touch deliberate, thumbs under his eyes, all pressed together, looking up at him with firm, hurting eyes.

“Don’t be such a baby, Jesse.”

Jesse leaned down into his hands.

“Just don’t think you have to go so soon, _cariño_ , you can stay a little while longer.” And everything he said had a different meaning now, everything he said was a hope, a prayer. 

“Don’t complain,” Hanzo dismissed him, voice unusually soft. “Reyes will come soon, I can’t stay.”

_I can’t stay._

And for some reason all Jesse could think to answer was _I know._

_I know and I’d come with you if you’d let me. If I could._

But he couldn’t get the words past his lips, couldn’t just commit like that; not sure that Hanzo would want him to come or if Gabe would let him go. Even now he couldn’t say if he could live off base, if he still knew how, if the he’d spent so long embedded in the violence that he didn’t know who he’d be without it. He sighed, eyes half open, gazing down at Hanzo’s collarbones, knowing that he’d miss them. Fiercely. Miss every part of him fiercely.

“You’re too sensible for me,” he whispered, not bothering to hide the sadness in his voice, unable to lift his eyes, “exquisite as you are.”

“I’m surprised you know what that word means,” Hanzo’s hands slipped down to his chest, looking at him with desperate eyes, asking him to make this easy, to leave the door open for him, not to ask him to stay when he couldn’t. And no matter the sorrow in his chest, if Hanzo didn’t want him asking, he wouldn’t; if he wanted to go, Jesse would let him.

“I know many words,” he murmured, hoping that he’d hear the love in his voice, leaning down to kiss his cheek, “beautiful,” he kissed Hanzo’s other cheek, burying his nose in a dimple, trying to kiss it all out, say it all “elegant,” and back again, “divine,” he kept himself against Hanzo cheek, murmuring against his skin, arm wrapped around him, trying to show that it was him that loved him, that out of everyone who could have done it better, it was him who loved the hardest. “just,” he breathed, “heavenly,” and he kissed him, properly on the mouth, eyes slipped closed, as hard and as soft as he could manage, not knowing if by the time he got back Hanzo would be gone, just gone. He tried to kiss the thought out of him, tried to express just how much he wanted this, how badly.

It was like he’d always wanted this, even before he’d met Hanzo, the shape in his fantasies was his shape; when he’d imagined someone, he’d been imagining Hanzo, he just hadn’t known it yet. He filled the silhouette, coloured the outline that had always been his. He was it. He was the great beauty.

And Hanzo kissed him back, holding onto him so tightly, always making it so easy, opening his mouth to him, arms around his neck, pressed against him, just as aggressive, kissing him like it was already an apology, a goodbye, wanting to make sure he was the last thing Jesse tasted before he left. But he wouldn’t let it escalate, wouldn’t let Jesse take him right there against the counter like he was already moving to do, like it was the sex that was going to make him stay. The moment his hand went to grip Hanzo’s ass his hand clamped around his wrist, and he jerked backwards, using the back of his sleeve to wipe at the saliva spread between them, eyes as sour as lemons, lips swollen with kisses. He stuck a finger in his face and the jig was up.

“Don’t pull that shit with me,” he hissed, softening a half second later, unable to preserve the intensity, hold onto his own annoyance, “I can’t… just don’t, Jesse.” His voice trembled with emotion, eyebrows drawn together, the corners of his mouth turned down, looking up at him with a barely maintained hardness, his defences erected with twigs and mud, hoping that Jesse would have the decency to leave them be, respect the boundary they set.

“I know,” he muttered, eyes down. He didn’t know when they’d come to this conclusion, when the moment had come, when he’d failed to say the words, but it sat heavy on his shoulders. Very, very slowly, he took Hanzo’s hand from his shoulder and pressed a kiss into his palm, eyes squeezed closed. And Hanzo would think it was a joke, an effort to get a rise out of him. But ever since he was a kid they’d told him that love was loving someone down to their hands, to the most violent parts of them, to everything that they’d ever done and everything they’d ever do. And he loved Hanzo down to his hands, earnestly and honestly, like a child loves the summer, like he had loved the gun.

But Hanzo only looked at him with sad eyes and left, palm slipping through his fingers, bag over his shoulder, no assurance that he’d be back, that he felt anything but a part-time attraction, a half-hearted intention or so, nothing worth staying for.

Jesse watched him, hoping that it wasn’t the last time he’d see him.

…

He drank the coffee Gabe had poured for him by the window, too jittery to sit, too anxious, looking down at the runway as if he’d be able to watch Hanzo go slipping out the gates, as if he’d be able to scream out the window, run down, and catch him. As if he could fix this, had it in him to fix this, rubbing at exhaustion in his eyes.

“ _Mijo_ , we need to talk.”

He stilled at the sound of his voice, all his muscles going rigid, knowing that nothing good happened after those words were spoken, suddenly aware of the vice-like grip of the Watchpoint still on the scuff of his neck, always on the scruff of his neck, been there since he was nineteen.

He turned slowly, wariness cold on his skin, a gut instinct telling him that it would be for the best if he just left now, left Gabe at his desk, anchored in his sea of paperwork, knowing that whatever he had to say, he didn’t want to hear it, didn’t have answers to his questions. _Mijo, we need to talk_ was the beginning of all their serious conversations, the beginning of all the words neither of them wanted said, all the situations they wished they weren’t in; _mijo, we need to talk about that bullet you took. Mijo, we need to talk about Genji. Mijo, we had to amputate. Mijo, what the fuck were you thinking? Mijo?_ His stomach sank.

But the hand on the back of his neck was tightening and all he could do was swallow thickly and try to ready himself for the blow.

“Yeah, boss?”

“Take a seat, kid.” Gabe gestured and he sat, slinking into the chair in front of his desk like a trained dog, coffee between his knees, unable to summon any expression but dark unease. Gabe watched him, his coffee cup making rings on the white pages, searching his eyes like he was trying to decipher him, trying to figure him out as if he’d ever been anything but himself. “So,” he began, “how have you been?”

Jesse squinted in confusion, eyebrows furrowing, and all he knew was that he had no idea how to answer that question.

“Jesus, _jefe_ , what sorta question is that?”

“A regular one,” Gabe hissed, but there was no bite to it, some sort of strange tension to his eyes, huffing like it was Jesse being vague, “I mean, when you get the new arm, you think you’ll be okay to come back to work?”

The question took him out at the knees, left him sputtering, dragging a facade of indigence over his face and clinging to it, as if he could hide this, as if he could stop the feeling of horror that was clawing at him, like the underside of his skin was crawling with bugs, like he couldn’t breathe. _Back to work, back to work, back to work._ He was going to black out. _Back to work. Je-sus._

He hadn’t even thought about it, hadn’t even considered it.

Overwatch had always just been something to do, just something that wasn’t jail, just another way of doing what he was good at. The only thing he’d ever been good at. And they were going to want him to go on missions, they were going to want him to go back to that, back to that life, those hotel rooms, those bullets through skulls, unsleeping in the backs of trucks, more scars, and he flinched from it like a hand from a fire, resisting it like the meaty hand on the back of his neck was trying to push his cheek down onto a hot stove.

His entire adult life had just been a mash up of violence, violence in one direction and then the other, violence for the gang and then violence for some justice, and he’d done good things. He knew that he’d done good things, that he’d saved people with that revolver of his, that he’d done good. But he was just so tired, and he just felt so old, so past his expiration date and overdue for death, running on fumes, knowing that the next bullet was probably destined for his brain stem, having grown so used to not flinching from the fire.

But then again, what else was there, but the work, but the flames?

His great talent in life was killing folks.

And he wasn’t sure what else he had to offer.

He stared down at his hand, unsure that he was even covering up the despair anymore.

What else did he have to offer the world but his limbs, but his knack for absorbing bullets, his ability to give them back in a thousand deliciously deadly ways. What else did he have it in him to do? What would it mean if he was already an old dog, too tired to learn, having no new tricks to offer?

Gabe cleared his throat into his fist and Jesse realised that he hadn’t managed to respond, eyes flickering up.

“Listen, Jess, if the answer to that question is no-”

“It’s fine,” his voice came out of his mouth without his permission, rushing to get back, to stop having to think about it, “it’s fine, I’m good for it,” he smiled, hoping Gabe wouldn’t see through it, wouldn’t see how his hand was going to shatter his coffee cup against a wall, “gotta get busy or I’ll loose my mind,” he laughed, the noise tight and breathless, Gabe looking at him as though he wanted to argue, wanted to talk about it more, but instead he just pressed his lips together, and let his gaze shift down.

“If thats what you want, _mijo_ , I’ll set it up.”

And he figured, bitterly, that at least he’d have something to do when Hanzo left him.

…

Ana went over the procedure with him, slowly and patiently, describing what was going to happen, what would hurt and what wouldn’t, how long it would take, what it would feel like, how it would be able to do everything his old arm had been able to do and more, not to worry.

He wasn’t paying attention, he was staring at the tiled floor, wondering if Hanzo gone yet, if he’d learned how to linger yet, or if he had fled, if his quarters were already packed up, scrubbed clean of him, like a murder scene with all the evidence removed. Something between shame and hurt refused to move from his chest, refused to let him think of anything but how sad he was, how bitter.

“Jesse, are you listening to me?” Her voice derailed his train of thought and his gaze shot up, Ana watching him with her single wary eye.

“Yeah, of course I am,” he smiled, but the action was tense, unnatural. She frowned back.

“Don’t be a fool, _habibi._ ”

And he could have laughed, could have reminded her that that boat had been long since sailed. But he didn’t, didn’t have the energy, didn’t have the words.

He remembered that when he’d been a kid, nineteen going on ten, he used to go to her door in the middle of the night, used to go and stand in her corridor, missing his sisters, missing the life he’d lost, ask her if he could sleep on her couch. Ana had been the only person to be kind to him in weeks, and he’d been a creature of comfort even then, needing love, needing affection, assurance that he wasn’t the scum of the earth, that there were still things worth living for. He went back to her in times of turmoil, when he could feel his stomach growing cold like a dying hearth, found her door in the middle of the night when the restlessness took him. Took him like a hostage, hand on the back of his neck.

And she found him in med bays and in the midst of a recovery he’d never wanted, bracing for another kind of hurt.

“I ain’t,” he muttered instead, stuck somewhere been young and impossibly old, eyes down. He heard her sigh, watched her set down her clipboard on the side table.

“Jesse,” she addressed him firmly, and he let his gaze drift up, “I want you to do something for me, and I want you to take it very seriously.”

“You know I’d do anythin’ for you, Ana,” he murmured, because he would. He’d never forgotten the debt he owed to them, knowing that he would have been dead by twenty-two if Gabe hadn’t taken him in when he did.

“I want you to think about what you want, and not to be a coward about it,” she said, voice hard and firm, “do not think of the consequences, just what your life would look like if it was all _exactly_ as you’d want it.” He opened his mouth to ask what the point of this was, before she cut him off with a hand gesture, fingers slicing through the air. “Just do it, Jesse.”

He let his eyes flicker away, barely able to push aside the thought of what he didn’t want to think of what he did. But he tried, for her, eyes closed.

And of course, he thought of Hanzo, like a compass returning north, a river going back to the ocean. He thought of his hands, his eyebrows, his cheekbones, thought of milky skin under his hand, nose buried in silky hair. He thought of the nape of his neck, the way he threw his head back when he laughed, really laughed, the way he liked to stretch in the morning, the way he leaned over the vanity to inspect the corners of his eyes for wrinkles after he brushed his teeth, the way he’d let Jesse curl around him. He thought of his eyelashes, the backs of his knees, his spine, his waist, all the intricate little details of his tattoo, the ones he’d picked up only after hours of studying it in sunbathed sheets, asleep beside him.

 _I love you_ , he whispered into the oblivion, hand rubbing at his face, _I love you and I’m so tired_. 

All he wanted was to sleep, sleep heavy and restful in some place with warmer walls and windows he could leave open, all he wanted was for Hanzo to be there, even though he knew that there would be no sleep for him yet, and Hanzo was probably already gone.

But the version of Hanzo that lived in his head wrapped around him, lovely and smooth, and Jesse cried to him, yearned for him, for the endless morning. And he remembered that he’d been young and dumb once, had thrown himself over and over again into being a good solider, not an obedient one, not a safe one, but he’d hit close enough, was lucky enough. And he’d figured that he’d be dead before he hit thirty anyway, might as well save some lives while he was at it. It hadn’t bothered him then, to be destined for a short life. But now, when Ana asked him what he wanted, he wanted to live.

For one of the first times in his whole life, he wanted to _live_. 

 _I love you,_ he whispered to the version of Hanzo that lived in his brain, _and I don’t want to do this anymore._

_I want a home._

What an impossible thought.

And behind his eyes he tried to imagine what Hanzo would look like sitting on a couch on a weekday evening, eating dinner, watching tv. He could imagine the way that he liked lie on the couch, hair up, the stranglers tucked behind his ears. Evening yukata and everything, beautiful, serene, peaceful. Behind his eyes he held to the blissful afternoon, caught in episodes, snap shots, the sunlight coming through curtains, the smell of maple syrup and cherry blossoms. Hanzo beneath his fingers, Hanzo at a dinner table, Hanzo on a veranda, Hanzo in a garden, Hanzo in a bedroom that was theirs, together.

But even dreaming, he could feel the Peacekeeper at his hip, could feel himself setting alarms by the doors, locking the windows.

 _“You deserve better than this,”_ Alisa told him, sitting in the armchair beside the couch, _“but there are some things you are going to have to unlearn.”_

But he didn’t know what they were, he didn’t know how to get back, he didn’t know how to get back to that person who was simple, that hadn’t been so afraid all the time. He couldn’t remember how to want to live and not fall apart with the pressure. He’d never wanted something so fragile before. He’d never wanted anything that could be lost so easily, that was already in the process of being lost.

“I want to live,” he murmured, eyes slipping open, gazing at the floor. Ana’s hand landed on his shoulder and he looked up.

“And what exactly is stopping you from trying?”

“Nothing,” he whispered, watching her with a kind of mournful horror as it dawned on him. She smiled sadly at him.

“No good things happen unless you ask for them, _habibi,”_ her eyes were soft on him, “I am sorry we never told you that. But you are a good man, Jesse McCree, and you deserve to live.”

…

_What is stopping you from trying?_

He ran, ran as fast as his legs would carry him, sprinting across the runway, shirt lifting from his back, still able to feel Ana’s eyes on him, her words rushing through his mind, _a good man,_ she rang firmly, _and you deserve to live._ And once he’d started thinking about it, he couldn’t stop, couldn’t stop thinking about a living room, a kitchen, fucking throw pillows, some place to call his own, someone. He couldn’t stop thinking that there were still things he wanted to do, still things he wanted to be, he’d learn, he’d be better, he’d try. He’d try _anything._

_What the fuck were you thinking, Jesse?_

The words were bursting through his mind like fireworks, throwing colour against the deep darkness of his brain, and all he could do was listen to them go flying, breath ragged in his chest, hot sun beating down on him, somewhere between exhilaration and panic, between drowning and diving.

_There are things you are going to have to unlearn._

And he was certain that if he tripped now, he wouldn’t feel it, the wind rushing past his ears, warm air ripping at his hair as he went hurtling into the officer’s building, damn near launching himself up the stairs, half running and half leaping, swinging himself around by the hand rail, almost colliding with some poor bastard as he went. He didn’t have the time to explain.

He went skidding down his own corridor, heart rattling around in his chest like a canary trying to fly in a cage, breath coming ragged and forced out of his mouth, sliding on the linoleum, barely managing to stop his own momentum before he went flying past his own door. He burst inside and his legs almost gave out beneath him.

The silence was soft and his quarters empty, the air cool and still, the bed made, the kitchen clean, his ribbon gone from the table, his book tucked back into the bookshelf, reset and restored, empty. There was only silence, sweet and stale, spread over every surface, just his own heartbeat, his own breath and nothing more.

On his coffee table was a note, and all it said was: _I’m so sorry, Jesse._

_I’m so sorry, Jesse._

His heart stilled in his chest like the canary had dropped dead and he felt the world come crashing down around him, his fingers shaking, breath quivering as he felt every last gasp of strength he had leave him. And he’d known, he’d seen this coming, shouldn't have felt this pain in his stomach like it was fresh, like if he looked down Hanzo’s switchblade would be jutting out from between his ribs. He’d known, known that he would be too late, that no will to live was going to change the facts of the matter, the brutal reality of it all.

But he wanted to bury his head in his hands, wanted to scream and pull out his hair, wanted something to be angry at, something that wasn’t him, he wanted a car crash, a bullet, some violence so that he could be violent too, sink back into the blood. He wanted the violent body to take him back, the violent body that thought of nothing, the violent body that felt nothing but rage and panic, a stranger to guilt and shame, self-pity and love, all the love he had in him.

His breath gasped out of his mouth, despair and horror pouring through him. Unable to think of anything but his own failures, knowing that it was always him who had asked for more, always him loving a bit too hard, smothering beautiful things, holding on so tightly and yet still surprised when his fingernails broke, when the inevitabilities grew cold around him.

_What the fuck were you thinking, Jesse?_

_What the fuck were you thinking?_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen, ya'll new this was coming, it's not my fault. I mean I did write it, and create the plot line, but hey, I just work here. 
> 
> Also: find me on Tumblr at https://spursandstars.tumblr.com
> 
> Hanzo: I am looking for trouble, and if I can't find it, I will create it.
> 
> COME AND TALK TO ME I'M SO LONELY


	15. Not Fucking Around

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was exhausting, this took such an incredibly long time and now I have died. 
> 
> I wanted it to be sad and then I didn't want it to be sad and I went back and forth and back and forth. And I've decided I'm going to start a band called "all my hobbies are trying to kill me" and the whole debut album is just me screaming into the void. 
> 
> Anyway, I'll remember you all in therapy. 
> 
> Proceed with the show.

The street bustled around him, the sounds that surrounded him so unfamiliar since he’d been at the Watchpoint; a busker a few shops down singing in Spanish, people walking between stores, children skipping on the pavers. The afternoon sun beat down on him as he stood on the curb, waiting for the taxi he’d called, stoney and still. He should have felt light, should have felt free, stripped of his burdens, rebalanced, breathing fresh air for the first time in months. 

But instead he just felt so heavy, heavy like his chest was made of concrete, like he was anchored down to the earth, a ball and chain around his ankle, his bag was filled with rocks, every part of him trying to drag his body down to the ground and keep it there, every sigh weighty. 

He could have laid down right there on the sidewalk and hardly felt the difference, could have let the police carry his drunk and disorderly self away, knowing that he was at his best breaking out of a holding cell, that Jesse might come and bail him out if he asked. Instead, he collapsed inside the taxi when it came, slurring out his destination in the few words of Spanish he’d managed to retain through the drinking, the driver nodding wordlessly, eyes following him in the rearview mirror as he tried to organise his legs. 

He’d known that it wasn’t wise for his first stop to be the local bar, but he’d fallen into it, like a ship seeking safe haven in a storm, slipping into the first available port, the first available method of feeling this less. He hadn’t known that it would have just the opposite effect, the longing just roaring up hotter and harder in his chest, just getting heavier and heavier, sinking down into his own shoulders as he sat hunched over the bar, drinking whiskey like it was a homage, a prayer. 

He slumped back into his seat as the car started to move, leaning his head against the window pane, cool against his hot skin. 

He was coming apart at the seams, he could feel it. Like a thread unspooling, struggling to tell the difference between swimming and sinking, waiting for the tide to wash him back up on the shore. He was barely even fighting the current anymore, barely even bothering. Instead he’d unraveled himself in some Spanish small town, let it weather him, wear him down until he was honest, until all the debris had been washed away and he’d known what had to be done. 

He’d spent hours removing himself from Jesse’s quarters, trying to put it all back just the way it had been, resetting the stage, as if he’d never been there at all, the part he’d played erased from the script. As if he was anything complete, anything decisive, as if he’d been able to keep himself from leaving reminders, taking souvenirs; it wasn’t a clean severance, not done with care, but in panic, fear, not sure what else there was to do but scramble, but to rip out his own roots. 

Scenery whipped past as they exited the town and he watched it with a weary resignation, having known for so long that he’d end up like this, half drunk in the back of a taxi, coming to terms with the non-negotiable clauses of his life. The bar hadn’t been crowded, and he’d kept to himself, staring at a train timetable he’d picked up somewhere, unable to read it, just knowing that it was an answer to the question he’d been asking himself. 

All he’d known, all he’d been able to think, fathom, was that there was no great metaphor at work here, there were no hoops to jump through, no riddle to solve, joke to understand. 

All there was to decide was whether or not he was on a train.

With him or without him, in the room or out of it. It was nothing more or less complicated than that, and drunk in a foreign bar, he’d seen it all clearly; the jagged, jutting edges smoothed, sanded down, brought into focus. Just in or out, staying or going, no room for floundering, suspension.

He sighed, rubbing his hands over his face, trying to breath deeply, rebalance himself. 

“Ah, water, señor?” 

He looked up, the driver’s eyes on him in the rearview mirror. He shook his head, taking a heavy drink from the flask he’d stolen from Jesse’s quarters, a memento, having had it refilled at the bar. The driver just looked back to the road, left him to stew as they shed the town, re-enveloped by the countryside, narrowing the distance between him and what he’d decided to want, him and the choice he’d made, knowing now that he’d been a fool to think that any option would complete him, would sit with him just the way he wanted it to. 

He sighed, discontentment heavy in him, made worse by the alcohol. He missed Jesse. He missed Jesse like there was an alarm going off inside of him, a constant ringing reminder that he wasn’t where he was supposed to be, that he missed him, that he shouldn’t have gone so far out, over and over and over again. _You miss him, you miss him, you miss him, this is absurd, this is the dumbest thing you’ve ever done._

The taxi rolled onwards. 

There was a quiet part of him that was never done replaying all of his gestures, that was never bored thinking of the scrape of his beard against his skin, the tilt of his head, the way he ran his knuckles down his hip in the middle of the night, tracing him like a sketch artist trying to memorise a curve. There was a quiet part of him that could have lived in his quarters forever, not to protect him, not to keep from hurting him, for no noble cause, except to feel his eyes on his skin, to hold his attention, his devotion like a candlelight. 

He was selfish, he couldn’t help himself. 

The car ride wasn’t long, an hour or so, but it seemed to slip by to him, drinking his whiskey, barely sober. When they arrived, the driver leaned back to take the fare, eyes gentle on him as if he could tell there was something wrong with this situation, something wrong with him. 

“You sure this is where you want to go, señor?” He asked. 

Hanzo sighed. 

And this morning he would have said no, would have answered that he wasn’t sure about anything anymore, that all his intentions were contradictory and vague and shifting sands and he didn’t understand it at all. But things had become clear to him in the din of the bar, all the fluff, all the failed bits of innovation, all of it had fallen away, the room swept clean, no more trying to find loopholes where there was no contract, no more dodging the limitations he himself had put there. Left only with the sober reality, harsh but honest against his intoxicated eyes, made soft enough that he could take it in. 

“This is it,” he muttered, voice dark, “I’ve made my choice.” 

He clambered out of the backseat of the car, hauling his bag over his shoulder. Knowing that it wasn’t wise to be here. 

But he was selfish, he couldn’t help it. 

He gazed at the Watchpoint and the Watchpoint gazed back. 

…

Jesse spotted him just as he was jogging across the runway, from his quarters to the gate, almost fell over at the sight of his boots, one knee raised, his other foot just off the end of the bench, his bench. And it was Hanzo’s boots, he was certain, certain that it was those boots he’d seen neatly placed beside his door every evening since they’d gotten back, those boots he’d seen everyday for the past six months, those boots that he’d accidentally pulled on while drunk in Portugal, thinking they were his own. 

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he muttered to himself, “that bastard.” 

…

“Cigarette?” 

Jesse was standing above him when he opened his eyes, bathed in the evening, the last of the light shining through his hair, colouring his battered face in orange and pink, looking at him with his signature squint and an unreadable expression. He stood with a bag over his shoulder, his hat on his head, dressed in one of his softer flannels, tucked into his jeans, the open end of a cigarette packet offered down to him. 

And they were both empty of frenzy, Jesse looking down at him, Hanzo looking back, quiet and serious in a way they hadn’t been before. 

He looked so different than he had that morning, clearer now, his colours brighter, softer, more detailed, deeper, Hanzo no longer trying to convince himself that he could remove himself from this, that Jesse was the sort of thing his body was prepared to let go of. 

_Thank god,_ he could only think, _thank god, it’s you._

“Hey,” he said, quiet and slow, taking a cigarette from the packet as he sat up. 

“Hey,” Jesse answered, equally so. 

Hanzo rubbed at his hair and pressed the cigarette against his lips, knowing that Jesse’s next move would be to light it for him, that he didn’t need to ask, that he never needed to ask. Jesse sat beside him, just far enough away that they weren’t touching, a careful inch of distance between them, and Hanzo sighed, any hope that Jesse hadn’t been back to his quarters yet stifled, that there was any simplicity to be had. Jesse’s bag joined his own at his feet as he settled beside him, running a hand through his hair as Hanzo took a drag on his cigarette, watching him out of the corner of his eye.

Jesse didn’t speak, just lit a smoke of his own with a tired look to his eyes, leaning back, his expression hard, unyielding, gazing out to sea. 

Upset with him. 

Of course. 

It felt like he’d spent years not knowing where he stood, not sure where his place on the chessboard was, if there was a place, if he deserved a place. It felt like he’d been adrift ever since they’d met in the restaurant, his determination ever shifting, impossible to keep track off, wading one way before wading the other. But finally, finally, land was beneath his feet, he was steady and solid and he understood, none of the facts of the matter contradicted one another, all of it untangled, the case cracked, as the stars all back in their rightful places. And he understood. 

There was no living without him, and that was just that, a fact. 

After a little while, he lay his head down on Jesse’s shoulder and Jesse let him, let him close the distance between them and rest against him, flicking his cigarette away and slipping his arm over his shoulders, pulling him into the side of his chest. He felt Jesse rest his cheek on the crown of his head, felt him take a heavy breath, felt him still a second later, turning his nose into his hair, sniffing at him with a frown on his face.

“Why do you smell like whiskey?”

“Why have you packed a bag?” 

“I asked first.” 

He laughed, the sound coming soft and relieved out of him, all pressed up against him, revelling in the security of his arm around him, of his presence next to him. 

“I drank too much,” he sighed, “I thought it might help.” 

“Interestin’ move,” his voice was smooth above him, but Hanzo felt his arm tighten around his shoulders, just a fraction. 

“You haven’t answered my question,” he muttered, eyes closed, head on his shoulder, hands clasped between his knees, too tired, too tipsy to consider that the bench was hardly a private space, that anyone could have walked past and seen them. 

“Aw, well,” Jesse began, Hanzo feeling the soft rumble of his voice though his chest, his hand stroking his shoulder, “figured I’d go after you is all,” there was a pause, brief but distinct, the pause before a leap, of a man considering the drop, “figured I’d go with you, if you’d let me.” 

Hanzo’s eyes opened as he absorbed the words, their meaning, comprehension dawning on him at a glacial pace. Slowly, he rose, lifting his head from Jesse’s chest to look up at him, up to his earnest eyes, looking back at him almost sheepishly, vulnerability clear on his face, offering Hanzo something delicate, as if he hadn’t proved himself too rough time and time again. 

“I would never ask that of you,” by accident his voice came out soft, breathless, even as he tried to be firm, trying to prove that he’d didn’t have to be vulnerable to be loved by him. He didn’t ever have to leave the Watchpoint if he didn’t want to, he could build walls around himself a thousand feet thick, could make himself impenetrable, could only tell him lies for the rest of their days. Hanzo would wait, he would stay just to share this world with him, on this bench, just to share his bed and his cigarettes, knowing that there was nothing in the world that could not be improved by Jesse McCree being there.

Jesse blinked at him in surprise. 

“You didn’t,” he answered, his voice firm even if he faltered a half second later, mouth opening and closing as he tried to start the next sentence as easily as he’d started the first. “I think I want to go,” he said, his eyebrows furrowed like he was surprised by his own statement, sucking his teeth as he thought, “I’ve been thinkin’ it’s probably time.”

Hanzo stared at him, mouth fallen open, marvelling at how little he had to do. There was no begging, no bargaining, no promises, no apologies. Just _I’d go with you, if you’d let me._ It left him in a state of wonderment, warmth filling his chest, half drunk as pleasure spread though him, like a cat with a mouse, not sure when he’d done the work of hunting, but knowing that he now had a mouse, that he was the winner in the game he hadn’t known he was playing, a kind of confused elation, triumph. He pressed harder against him, tucking himself more firmly against his side as they look out to sea together, him and his mouse, his victories. 

“Good,” he said, unable to fathom anything else, anything but that this was good, that Jesse’s words pleased him, drawing up one knee to his chest, heel on the bench. “That’s good,” he muttered, soaking up his heat, knowing that he could and he would follow it anywhere, that the conclusion he’d come to was strong and fixed, that there was no leaving, no retreat. Just the knowledge that for this, he would hold his nerve, learn how to say thank you, find a way of telling him over and over, each morning and each evening, that he was loved, so loved. And that this conclusion was as deliberate as any other in his life, he was a man that didn’t change his mind often, and that he wouldn’t, not about this . 

“Listen Hanzo,” Jesse ran his hand up and down his arm like he was trying to catch his attention, Hanzo looking to him, cheek rested on his knee, “I just want you to know, that whatever this is, I’m not fucking around.” He watched Jesse sigh, almost exasperated, with him, with himself, “I mean, if you want to go from town to town in the back of a van... then I’m here for that. If you wanna hunt down everyone who ever wronged you, then I’ll help, whatever you want, darlin’, whatever you want, I’ll be there.” Hanzo gazed across the horizon, leaned against him, tracing the words, eyes blinking as he went back over them, the way he’d said them, the way he held onto him, the way he’d been ready to come after him, the way he’d offered him his quarters, his things, his clothes, cigarettes, cups of coffee, his company, letting Hanzo sink into him like a bear into a cave. 

The realisation came achingly slow, frowning out at the water, the ships gliding there, the clouds slowly parting until he understood it as clearly as he understood himself.

“You’re in love with me.” 

It wasn’t even a question, just an observation, an accumulation of the evidence, all the gestures fit together so perfectly. The pet names, the arm wound around him in the night, the kisses, the compliments, the gifts. Until it was obvious, painstakingly so. 

Above him, Jesse let out a breath as if he’d been holding onto it.

“Yeah,” his voice came choked out of him, “I reckon that I am.” 

And he’d never believed it before, not coming out of anyone else’s mouth, but Jesse had never lied to him, had proved himself trustworthy over and over again, always where he’d said he’d be, doing what he’d said he’d do, consistent, capable, stoic in the face of Hanzo’s inability to settle. The idea wrapped around him like a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, to be loved, to be loved by a man whom he loved, to be safe under his arm, to understand that there was only one place in the world for him now and that just happened to be where he was. 

He hummed to himself. 

“Thats very convenient” he found himself murmuring as it all came together, neatly falling into place, rubbing his hand over his mouth as the last few pieces locked gently together, something almost solid forming, the concrete beginning to set. 

Jesse laughed breathlessly beside him. 

“I’m gonna be honest, sweetpea, that was not the response I was expecting.” 

And he laughed as well, pressing a kiss into his cheek, that way that Jesse always did for him, arm winding around the back of his neck, tucking himself all that bit firmer into his body, feeling the way his skin flushed with the affection, never expecting it in return, always so ready to be left to the dust he’d risen from. 

“There is so much love in me for you,” he whispered, leaning back to gaze at him, finger curling around a lock of hair “I sometimes wonder how I manage to breath in rooms you aren’t in.” 

Jesse just stared at him for a moment, before he went as red as a spring tomato and steam started coming out of his ears. 

…

Hanzo rolled over behind him, as if on a timer, shivering from one side of the bed to the other, so familiar now, after all these months, his breathing, the way he shifted, his propensity to seek warmth, to creep from his pillow over to Jesse’s. How prone he was to latching onto his back in the middle of the night, one leg thrown over his hip, arms around his middle, burying his nose in his shoulder, chest pressed into his back, breath on his skin. It barely even woke him anymore, the gradual convergence, the gentle change, going from their prospective sides to one or the other, hands running down his sides. And where there had been butterflies there was now a secure warmth, capable of recognising a pattern, expecting it like he’d expect the sun in the sky the next morning, something reliable about him now. 

“Jesse,” Hanzo’s voice almost startled him, strong in the darkness, not a whisper like it should have been, entirely conscious, no trace of sleep in his tone. Jesse turned his head halfway back just to show he was listening, eyes barely open in the darkness, filing through every bad thing Hanzo could say, assessing the risks like he’d been trained to do. 

“Yeah, darlin’?”

There was a pause from behind him, Hanzo’s eyelashes blinking against his skin, arms moving tighter around his waist, warm and solid against him

They’d eaten a dinner of Chinese take away, all tangled up on the couch, watching old movies, not able to plan quite yet, still taking it in, giddy with the body in his arms, with the knowledge that none of this needed to stop, that it didn’t have to break. It was almost reminiscent of their two months together, since Portugal, almost the same, except that it all stretched out in front of him now, properly, like the future was an avenue instead of a steep drop, like he no longer had to get it all done at once, he didn’t have to rush anymore. He could just rest, just wait, just lie down and not spent the entire night hoping that he hadn’t wasted the day not loving him right. 

Where he’d burned, panicked and frantic, desperate and ragged, ready to set fire to every ambition he’d had but one, now he simmered, warm and slow and soft. And it wasn’t even a pocket anymore, a moment, an episode of bliss, made bitter by its brevity. Now, he slept heavy with promise, with the fact that he’d been assured more, that he had the time, that there might be decades of this if he played his cards just right, he might forget that it hadn’t always been this way. 

Hanzo rose above him, the mattress dipping, Jesse forced onto his back with the movement, with Hanzo’s eyes on him, glimmering in the darkness, wielding that pinpoint precision he had, looking down at him like he was a target to be taken out. 

“You’d come with me if I’d let you, yes?” Hanzo repeated his words back to him like he was on trial, like Hanzo was a lawyer carefully going back over the facts in front of a jury, retracing their steps; Jesse, a witness like any other, making his confessions anew. He nodded, feeling strangely vulnerable under his eyes, on his back, Hanzo’s hand on his chest, keeping him down. 

“Yeah, I remember,” he muttered. 

Hanzo’s eyes narrowed on him. 

“I want to go somewhere cold, Northern Hemisphere, away from here, you understand?” 

And he knew that tone now, that tone he used when he felt too honestly to allow any softness though, that tone he used like he was trying to get back to the rich kid he must have been, used to all his demands being met and his authority unwavering. 

Jesse found himself absorbing the words in silence, staring up at him and his hard expression, his dark hair spilling over pale shoulders, tattoo silvery in the darkness, blinking, what Hanzo proposed unwrapping in his mind’s eye, imagining a winter, that they might burrow down into some snow together, stay there awhile, imagining it with his breath trapped in his throat. 

That afternoon he’d been so ready, that afternoon he’d been alight, like someone running for a taxi, waiting for a result, diving into the freezing water, knowing that it’d be better to drown trying than wait for a boat that might never come back ashore. He didn’t know how he’d known, how he’d known that he’d rather drown, but the knowledge had flooded him, thrummed through him like a house going up in flames, knowing in an instant that it wasn’t enough, it wasn’t enough to go running across the runway, to burst into his own quarters, to look for him only where he’d been. He’d been ready to follow him anywhere, to love him wherever he chose to go, from here to the ends of the earth like he was chasing a distant wind. 

But something in those words, the reality of it, made his stomach clench, made his breathing pause, old tricks flaring up in him, sudden doubt, his heart burdened with no evidence that he was capable of living like that, quietly, half smothering his hope to try. 

“I don’t have any warm clothes that aren’t combat gear,” he whispered, voice tight, staring up at him with wide eyes. And he knew that he’d still drop everything, knew that if he had protests they wouldn’t stand up to the smallest rebuke, but for a moment, all he could consider was the fact that he got cold easily. He heard Hanzo huff in annoyance, frowning down at him, the moonlight framing his face, all pearly and sharp. 

“Jesse, I will _buy_ you sweaters,” he hissed, hand fisted in chest hair, eyes hard, hurting, “if you have changed your mind, simply say as much.” 

Jesse stared up at him, blinking in surprise before a chuckle bubbled out of his mouth, even from under his severe gaze, his nose crinkled, eyebrows drawn together at him.

“I never said that,” he whispered up to him, reaching up to tuck his hair behind his ear, to take the wrinkle from between his eyebrows, “we’ll go somewhere cold, wherever you want, darlin’.” Hanzo let him press him back down into the mattress, let Jesse settle him back down into their sheets, kissing his hair between words, holding onto him and whispering, “there is nothing for you to worry about, not here, not with me.” 

And he’d make it so. 

He’d say the words if they needed saying, he’d learn how to explain, learn how to explain that he was missing things, that he wasn’t done living yet, that he was ready to get old. He’d learn how to say that he was due a little peace, how to say that he’d found something worth living for after figuring he’d die for any vaguely righteous cause since he was nineteen. He’d do it all. 

Hanzo slept with his arms around him like a vice and he stayed awake, naming the steps he’d take to Gabe’s office in the morning, certain that when the time came to say the words, he wouldn’t hesitate. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, Hanzo is like that bitchy kid that insists they're going to runaway from home, but then only gets half down the street before freaking the fuck out. 
> 
> Also, dicks.
> 
> Also, also, find me on Tumblr at https://spursandstars.tumblr.com


	16. Soft Hearted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so this is Chapter sixteen, as in the last chapter, as in there might not be any more after this one, idk. 
> 
> But the reason this has taken so long is that I rushed in my publishing of chapter fifteen, and then decided because I didn't like it, I couldn't possible face writing the final chapter because of very good reasons that I definitely had. But I edited that! And its different now! So you might want to double back and re-read that shit. (I also got rid of the sex scene, not because it was bad, it was just kind of arbitrary, and I was really just trying to make the chapter longer so I might publish it separately, who's to say) 
> 
> I also got a new job, and for some reason this meant that I had to like, relearn how to write. Do not recommend. 
> 
> Anyway, here it is, the end.

He banged hard on the door, fists balled, heart in his throat, throwing himself at the task because he knew that if he allowed himself even one half moment of indecision he would have launched himself out the nearest window just to keep from going through with it. He’d passed Reyes in the hallway, exchanged customary snarls, as if it wasn’t so much harder to look him in the eye knowing how much he was soon know, horrified that Reyes would understand even a fraction of how soft he’d become. 

But he’d get used to it, he tried to believe that he’d get used to it, he’d have to get used to it. 

The door slid open as he was halfway through a knock, knuckles awkwardly raised to beat something that had disappeared into the wall. 

His brother blinked at him. 

He blinked back. 

“Hanzo-” Genji might have wanted to continue on with whatever sentence he had planned, but every time he stalled Hanzo could feel a pull like gravity to get as far away from this conversation as physically possible, whatever it took. 

“Silence, let me in.” Hanzo found himself barging past him, pushing him out of the doorway and jerking into his quarters, set out much like Jesse’s, just a floor below, Genji following anxiously behind him as Hanzo made for the fridge, yanking it open and digging through it, assuming that it would be empty, and instead discovering a jug of water and an old tomato he had to assume belonged to someone else. 

“Brother, you’re scaring me, is everything okay?” 

Hanzo poured the water into the nearest available glass and chugged the whole thing, his throat suddenly parched, limbs the consistency of gelatine, but refusing to stop, shy away, like a steam train hurtling down the track, playing chicken with himself, knowing that he wasn’t going to flinch, no matter what fell away from him in the process, debris he shed, he was not going to stop. 

“Sit,” he commanded, focusing hard on keeping the wobble from his voice, pointing towards the dining chairs neatly placed by Genji’s rarely used dining table, fixing him with his severest look, nostrils flaring, teeth gritted in his mouth, growling with every last bit of authority he had left.

For a moment Genji’s mouth fell open as if to argue, but he hesitated before he could speak, uncertainty radiating off him, knowing that he’d been caught unawares, his own tricks used against him, cornering his opponent before going in for the kill. Hanzo watched him slink over to the chair, seating himself like a child called to the principals office, not knowing which offence he was meant to be confessing to, not after so many. Hanzo regarded him from the kitchen, eyes narrow, wiping his mouth with his sleeve, barely any of his refinement left, all frayed edges and loose ends. 

But he was determined, he had a plan.

And no matter what angle he came at it from, he couldn’t find a way of blaming Genji for this, for the conclusion he’d come to, the things he’d come to want. 

This wasn’t Genji’s fault, none of this was Genji’s fault. 

And he’d be hurt. 

“He’ll feel bad,” Jesse had told him, kissing his cheek, something firm in his voice, “y’don’t want that on your shoulders, sweetheart.” And he didn’t. He wanted no more collateral damage, no more broken glasses, no more conversations with barely subdued subtext, he couldn’t bare it anymore. 

He bared his teeth, set his shoulders, stared straight up to the ceiling, and spat out the words. 

“I’m sleeping with McCree.” 

For a long, horrific stretch there was silence, Hanzo’s heart beating hard against his chest, holding his breath as he tried not to imagine what was going through Genji’s mind, whatever assumptions he was mid way through making, so unaware of the journey that had taken place, all the developments, the jumps forward and the jumps back. He glanced at Genji, accidentally catching his stare, fierce with confused intensity, sitting mouth agape on his chair, and his eyes shot back up to the ceiling like he was jerking away from an electric shock, barely managing to hold his ground, keep himself from sprinting out the door at full speed like a jackrabbit with places to be. 

This had to be one of the single worst experiences of his life so far. 

“Jesus-”

Hanzo cut him off again, hand slicing through the air. He didn’t mean to interrupt, it was just that he was afraid Genji was going to keep talking and he couldn’t bare it. 

“Keep in mind,” he said, his eyes on the ceiling, hand held up, voice harsh, “I will be fielding only three questions on this matter, choose wisely.”

When he glanced down for the second time Genji had his head in his hands, rubbing at the metal around his temples, looking like he was trying to wrap his head around quantum physics, a medieval peasant trying to grasp the concept of a stem cell. 

“Okay,” he said, something exasperated in his tone, breathless, “first question,” Hanzo covered his eyes with his hands as if he couldn’t bare to watch him ask whatever it was, “Is-is it just… sex?”

Hanzo groaned, loud, rubbing at his skin, pulling at his face, longing to to lie, lie about everything, try to play it off as a joke, back-wheel so fast he might be able to brush it all back under the carpet, stop this whole endeavour before it got too far to be taken back, took on a life of it’s own. But he’d come here to be honest, to establish the facts, to keep no one significant in the dark about whatever he was calling this tirade of poor decision making. 

And despite himself, it was annoyingly important to him that Genji was damaged as little by this as possible, important to Jesse as well, knowing that he was right when he said that Genji would want a roll to play, to be not the last to know, not the bottom of the list. 

“No, it’s not.” 

“Oh my god.” 

He groaned again, rubbing at his eyes like he was trying to press them back into his skull, knowing he’d never bore this kind of weakness in front of his brother before, never shared something like this. So much of their relationship was trying to go back to the way they’d been, pretend that those years apart weren’t real, that they were the same as they’d been, but for one of the first times, they were experiencing something entirely new, something they’d never done before, even when they’d been friends, brothers in more than name. 

“You’re in love with him? McCree? Jesse McCree?” His voice had started out startled and ended with each syllable growing more and more shrill, half shrieking at him from his chair, jutting forward, the kitchen lights glinting off his metal shell. 

Hanzo glared at him, baring his canines because he’d do anything not to say it aloud, not to his younger brother. 

“Are you really wasting one of the two questions you have left to confirm that?” 

“ _Yes_ , Hanzo,” Genji yelled back, splaying out his arms as if to display the obvious, “this has never happened before.” 

“Fine,” he hissed, not sure whether he’d planned for this conversation to be as angry as it was, hissing at each other from across the room, “I’m in love with him, I will not be saying it again. One question left.”

And he was prepared for yelling, for Genji to remind him of all the romances he’d stifled before they could get off the ground, all the times he’d dragged him home, tried to convince him that whatever he was calling love, it wasn’t real. He was prepared for Genji to yell at him, remind him of just how little he deserved, of all the awful things he’d done, all the things he’d taken from him, deprived him of. If Genji wanted to shout at him, scream obscenities, then he was entitled, Hanzo wouldn’t fight him, just wait for it to pass, he’d be good, he’d try his best to be good, no matter what he said. 

He hadn’t known that what would catch him off guard was the quiet “oh” that came out of his brother, almost a whisper, his face slack, not even looking at him, all ferocity gone from his gaze, as if it was real now, had sunken in. “I didn’t realise.” 

And for a moment, they were quiet. No screaming, no yelling, no points made, neither of them completely invulnerable to the other, neither of them behind the glass that had been put between them years before. Instead he found himself shrinking forward, slipping down into one of the dining chairs just across from him, staring down at his hands, broken and uncertain, Genji blank and staring at the floor across from him. 

And if he’d felt any anger, it drained out of him, replaced with an empty helplessness, all his actions clumsy, always mistaking aggression for honesty, finding himself opening his mouth and hoping desperately that something kind came out of him.

“Brother, I… I never meant for this to happen,” he gestured vaguely as though he meant everything, sitting at this table, in this place, talking about this man. He’d be lying if he said he’d never wished he’d taken his chances with the crows, but he’d never meant for this to be the alternative. He’d never meant for this sort of peace to take him, for contentment and love to curl in his belly and stay there. 

Across from him, Genji rubbed his hands over his face, both of them old and tired, weary in the lives they were forced to live, the hurdles neither of them had seen coming, complicating already complicated circumstances. 

“I never meant for this to happen either, brother,” was Genji eventual response, sighing out of him, voice thick with confusion and fatigue, neither of them particular accustomed to talking about their feelings, like deep sea divers reaching the surface, exhausted by the weight of their own bodies on land. 

Hanzo looked up at him, “Would you have sent him? If you’d known?” His voice was quiet, almost vulnerable and Genji blinked in surprise, eyes jerking towards him. 

“Of course I would have.” Genji’s charred eyebrows furrowed, a frown on his face, something almost offended about him, hurt stacked on top of hurt, “I have always wanted you to find peace, _Anija_. I simply did not realise it would be with _him_.” 

Hanzo stared at him, struggling to comprehend the statement, before a chuckle overpowered him and he laughed, laughed at all of this, at how absurd it was, at Jesse, at Genji, at himself. He had done so much, risked so much, taken so much, lives, powers, material wealth, and yet, here he was, asking his younger brother to bless the life he was going to try and live with Jesse McCree. 

“I was surprised also,” It felt strange to admit it all so freely, in front of Genji no less, rubbing at his chest, relief rolling through him, relief that he might not have to be firm or unflinching, that he might not have storms to wait out, no insults to be slung. “He makes me very happy.” 

Hanzo smiled at him, one of the few genuine smiles he’d ever given him. Because he was trying to feel settled, because Genji too had given him many gifts, was deserving of a little thanks, what little affection he had to give. He was part of the reason why he stood so tall, part of the reason why he’d been given these months, been given a quiet future, someone to love, some rest to look forward to. 

“I’m glad, Hanzo, I am. I just hope that I have some place in your future.” 

It always took him by surprise that Genji could speak so clearly, could insert himself so honestly, could burst into a room with a closed door, send a bear to collect his brother, invite him to lunch, could ask to be included in a future even Hanzo couldn’t understand, knowing that it had always been a strength of his, the endless generosity he had for even him. 

“I would enjoy that,” he offered, quiet. “I have not said that to you enough, but whatever is to come, I had assumed that you would have a part to play.” 

Genji smiled at him and he smiled back, both of them hesitant, cautious, trying to keep their investments quiet, not sure about how hard they could press against one another without the pane of glass there to keep them separated, knowing that they both had pointy edges to fear. 

“Thank you for saying it, _anija_ , and hope to play it well.” 

Genji stood, brushing himself off as if he’d accumulated dust in the minutes spent sitting there. He looked down at Hanzo for a moment, sitting in his quarters, quarters he’d never been in before, trying to do right by each other, trying to ignore the nagging feeling that he’d never really be able to do right by Genji, no matter how good or honest he became. But instead of focusing on that, Genji offered his hand, his metal hand, those perfectly designed fingers, offering him a part of himself that he’d sought to keep hidden these past few months, only every reaching for him with the familiar, the original. 

And Hanzo took it, reaching back, because he had reparations to make, debts to be paid, a life to live, a life he was willing to work for. 

Genji grinned at him, “If he does not treat you well, I will kill him for you.” 

Hanzo smiled back. 

“Thank you brother, I will keep that in mind.”

…

He’d come in like whirlwind, closing the door behind him, locking it and shoving the nearest chair under the door handle, shutting the window, yanking the cord out of his lamp and pressing a scrambling device to his phone, but he hadn’t been able to maintain the momentum, not once everything he could do was done and he was stuck sitting in front of Gabe’s desk with heart stuck on his sleeve. 

“So,” Gabe spread both sets of fingers over the leave request Jesse had slapped down on his desk, looking at him from under his furrowed eyebrows, “just so we’re clear, your plan…. is to run away?” Jesse pressed his lips together, eyes staring at the desk, and nodded. Gabe continued. “And not just run away, mind you, but run away with Genji’s fratricidal older brother who, according to this, you’ve been secretly sleeping with for months, because you’ve fallen in love,” Gabe took a breath as if he was barely managing to process the stupidity, “and _no_ , you do not know when you’ll be back, or what you’re going to do, or where you’re going to live, and you have come up with this plan all in the last forty-eight hours. Is that everything?” 

Jesse chewed on his lip, something heavy bearing down on his shoulders, and suddenly wishing that he hadn’t removed his hat, wishing that he could pull the rim down over his eyes and preferably sink into the floor. He settled for burying his nose into his bandana and refusing to make eye contact. 

“Yeah,” he managed to choke out, “that sounds about right.” 

There was a distinct pause from the desk and he held his breath. 

“Jesse,” Gabe breathed, “this is the single dumbest fucking idea you’ve ever had.” 

He knew. 

But before he’d left, Hanzo had pulled the bandana around his neck and kissed the marks he’d left there, wrapped his arms around his shoulders and balanced his chin on the crown of his head, pulledhim close again his chest and proposed that they just leave a note instead, just go, wordless, simple. And the coward in him had almost jumped at the chance, a childish part of him longing for the path of least resistance, to confront nothing, admit nothing, knowing that they could just pack up their things and go, that it would be so easy, so easy. 

But Gabe was looking at him with that half-disbelieving and half-frustrated combination that was so familiar, looking at him like he was still nineteen, like he was still just a kid. And suddenly, there was no forgetting that he owed everything he had to that look, to being looked at like that, like he was a fool but not irredeemable. There had been times when he had been irredeemable, but Gabe had never stopped looking at him like there was still work that could be done, that he could still be better if he just set his mind to it, learned how not to loose his temper, how to bite his tongue, take his blessings where they came. 

And there would be no going out a window when he was still so in debt. 

Armed with the kisses Hanzo had placed on his throat and a sense of determination he’d never felt before, he somehow managed to keep himself in his chair for the second day in a row, refusing to budge, to dodge the blow no matter how he wanted to. He could almost taste the salvation, he was so close, so close to a good nights sleep every night, so close to shedding the fear that every time his phone rang it was a mission, so close to imagining life beyond forty, to shaking off that hand on the back of his neck, trying to convince him that all he was good for was death. 

This was just another hurdle he’d get over, just another river he’d cross, another mountain he’d move. 

“Is that a no?” He managed to lift his gaze, trying to hold the hardness in his eyes, the mountains, something quiet clenched in his fist, refusing to let it go, trying to be fierce even if he knew that Gabe could have removed the floor from beneath his feet with a hand gesture, a few harsh words. No matter the strength he could feel, the strength he’d borrowed, been given, something small in him just wanted Gabe to want this for him, just wanted him to love him out of combat too, even if Jesse served no purpose, did nothing Gabe had trained him to do. He wanted him to pat him on the back and tell him it was okay if he abandoned his post, even if it was the post he owed everything to. 

Gabe regarded him for a moment, leaning back in his chair, eyes narrowed on him.

“You know what, _mijo_ , I’m going to tell you a story,” Gabe levelled him, knitting his fingers together over his stomach, and Jesse stared at him, faced with another response he hadn’t been expecting. “You remember when you were twenty-four and we were in Brazil, and you went into that building even though I told you not to?” 

Jesse nodded, squinting, not sure how they’d made the leap from one conversation to the next.

But he remembered Brazil like a fever dream gone foggy, he remembered the thickness of the air, the gun in his hands, the weight of those lives on his shoulders, needing to do something, needing to save them. 

“I told you a thousand goddamn times to wait until I got there, but you went in anyway, turned off your communicator and went in to help those folks. Like it was nothing,” Gabe shook his head as if it was ludicrous, as if he was still ludicrous, even now, “And when I got there that building was still half on fire, fucking rubble on the ground,” Jesse squinted at him, he hadn’t thought about that day in years, it hardly seemed relevant now. But Gabe continued on, indifferent. “And I was so fucking sure that you were in there, I was so sure that you were buried under all those walls and that I’d lost you, that you were as dead you’d ever be.” Gabe’s eyes burned into him, still and steady, a sort of ferocity to him. 

“I even called your sisters, told ‘em you were missing even though I was so sure that you were gone, just properly dead. Twenty-four, and just fucking dead. And I thought, this kid is never gonna get married. He’s never gonna have kids, never live in his own house, never gonna get old, never gonna fall in love, never any of that shit. No, I took that from him. I took that life from him.” Jesse stared at his hand, heart heavy, because Gabe had never told him any of this, he’d never even thought about it, it was just another mission, just another thing he was okay dying for. 

“And then you just come wandering out of the rainforest two days later with this mob of hostages, looking like you’d been swimming mosquitos, looking like you weren’t ever gonna want to go outside ever again.” Gabe sat forward in his chair, demanding his attention, demanding his eyes, “And I’ve been fucking losing it ever since.” 

Jesse gazed solemnly at him, something heavy in his chest. He remembered that day, remembered how he’d carried one of the youngsters on his back as they’d tried to make their way back to civilisation. 

He remembered seeing their camp for the first time and knowing that Gabe was in there somewhere, remembered yelling as loud as he could, voice hoarse and legs weak. Yelling, frantic and wobbling from a hundred yards away, and seeing Gabe appear at the fence line. He remembered how Gabe had held him, kid slipping from his back, gripping onto his shoulders and holding him so tightly that it hurt. _“I’ve got you, mijo,”_ he’d said, voice shaking, _“I’ve got you now.”_

Jesse stayed silent, tried to keep himself steady as Gabe stood, pushing his chair back and making for the window, letting out a huff of frustration as he ran a ragged hand though his hair, pinning his stare down onto the runway. 

And after a moment Jesse joined him, hand shoved into his pocket, both of them looking out of the Watchpoint, the only place either of them had called home since they were each in their teens. The place that had both taken care of them and made them in to harder people, people with flinches and fears, with habits for violence, a predilection for firearms. A safe haven and a war zone, both exhausting and restful in a thousand different ways. He’d had so much certainty with the Peacekeeper in his hand, so much safety in the blindness, in the work. But he was learning that he wasn’t fit for it anymore, didn’t have the bones for it, not when the alternative sipped his coffee every morning and wrapped arms around him in the night. 

“I wasn’t lying when I said I wanted you to get married. Have a house, get old, whatever,” Gabe’s voice had gone soft, almost uncertain, but Jesse hung on every word, eyes down on the runway, “you deserve a bit of peace if that’s what you want.” Jesse heard him huff and turn towards him, unfolding his arms and placing his hand squarely on Jesse shoulder like he was doing an impression of what he thought fathers did in situations like this, even if it came unnaturally to him. Jesse hazarded him a glance.

“Look, _mijo_ ,” he looked at him with hard, truthful eyes, mouth twisted, and Jesse looked back, unable to keep the sadness from his eyes, “I ain’t gonna lie. I’m gonna miss you, you’re important to me and I’m gonna miss you. But you being happy is also important to me, and if you don’t think you can be happy here anymore, then I guess… I encourage you to go. Odd choice of company, but whatever,” he paused and sighed, frustration coming off him in waves, having to force out the words he was so unaccustomed to, “I’m just… I’m just sorry if you’ve been feeling this way this whole time and I just didn’t notice. It shouldn’t have taken me so long to realise that when Alisa told me to take care of her boy, she probably didn’t mean for me to teach him how to kill people real well.” 

Gabe couldn’t meet his eyes as he spoke, almost snarling, hissing out the words, gaze hard and determined but anywhere but him, hand still gripping his shoulder as Jesse tried to keep from tearing himself to shreds with the stress of it, bursting with unnameable emotions, stomach in knots, every one of his senses overexposed, flooded with words, by getting exactly what he’d wanted and more. 

But he should have known, Gabe always came out of nowhere, always when he was on his deathbed or finding love for the first time. 

He could hardly choke out the bare minimum of words in response. 

“Thanks, _jefe_.” 

Gabe offered him a small smile. 

“You’re alright, kid.” 

…

Hanzo felt Jesse’s arm turn around his waist, hand moving over his stomach, chin coming to rest his shoulder, chest to his back, pleasure rolling through him at his return even if Hanzo knew that it hadn’t even been that long, knew that he’d spent so much longer without him, so long on his own that to lean back against him was a miracle in of itself, to feel this sort of trust. For a moment, he let his eyes slip closed, taking in the moment like a breath, knowing that he might stand there forever, that he could trust that Jesse would go on holding him, just as long as he maintained the sweetness, kept doing whatever it was Jesse saw in him. 

“So,” Jesse’s voice came from just behind his ear, murmuring, “you figure out what cold you’re looking for yet?”

Hanzo hummed, eyes opening, gazing down at the map he’d spread over the counter, down at all the possibilities, the opportunities, no longer half-smothered hopes but plans he was going to make, things he was going to do. 

He’d spent the hour Jesse had been gone pacing, running hands through his hair, biting at his perfect nails, hissing at no one but himself. Genji had been one thing, a terrible, awful relief, but Reyes was quite another. Reyes didn’t trust him, Reyes didn’t even like him, Reyes’ didn’t care about how far he’d come, Reyes didn’t care for him pointblank. But Jesse cared about his opinion, cared for his approval, cared for his signature on an arbitrary piece of paper, a leave request, as if Jesse would ever need to work again if he didn’t want to. 

He’d spent the hour trying to figure out if he could blackmail Reyes with any success, bribe him, threaten him, something, anything. He’d spent the hour constructing schemes in his head, lists of all the reasons he should be allowed to take Jesse away from here, ready to present Reyes with catalogues of all his secret bank accounts, the properties he had hidden away, the one meal he knew how to cook perfectly and his collection of bejewelled, antique daggers, ready to storm into his office and slap his resume down on his desk. 

It wasn’t often in life that he wanted to ask permission and he didn’t like it. 

Jesse nuzzled into his neck and he was soothed, raising his jaw so that Jesse could kiss him, comfort him. He should have felt smothered, should have had terror crawling in his stomach every time Jesse touched him, touched so often and so freely, should have felt ice slithering up around him, built up like a barricade. But instead, Jesse turned him to jelly, softened him like cream, sent him melting backwards against him, finding his hand over his stomach and covering it with his own. 

“I’m not certain yet,” he mused, “you will have to tell me your opinion on a few things.”

Jesse kissed him just below his ear. 

“Wherever you’re at, sweetcheeks. Sounds good to me.” 

And he laughed, soft, knowing he was soft, soft in a way he’d never thought possible before, a marshmallow of a human being. He’d gone from being made of steel to being made of cotton balls, fragile, flammable, weak. But capable of keeping precious things warm. He could keep Jesse warm, he’d keep Jesse warm for as long as he’d let him, that was all that was important, all that mattered. 

“You will regret giving me so much control,” he murmured as Jesse bit at his ear, playful. Hanzo could practically feel the good news radiating off him, the grin on his mouth, his giddy heart, jittery with joy. And the joy bubbled through him too. Every victory cementing in his mind that there would be no challenges yet to come, that each battle won was the last they’d fight, that there would be no more hurdles for him. Jesse made it so easy to believe that every cynical thought he’d ever had wasn’t true, that there was only beauty as long as the world had him in it. 

Jesse kissed his cheek, love pouring out of him.

“Nah,” he muttered, lips moving against his skin, “I don’t reckon that I will.” 

Hanzo chuckled, dizzy with the revelation, leaning back on him, not sure if the feeling was ever going to fade, if he wanted it to, the heavy delight, the contentment. And he knew in his belly, that he’d allow no one else to see him like this, that he wasn’t ready for anyone else to know how soft he’d become, to know that he’d found something so valuable, something that would destroy him if lost. He wasn’t ready to wear that sort of weakness on his sleeve. But in front of Jesse, held by Jesse, loved by Jesse, kissed by Jesse, he couldn’t have gotten weaker. 

He was going to learn how to sleep late, he was going to grow crafts untouched by violence, he was going to find out what decor he preferred in a home to call his own, he was going learn patience, learn complacency, learn peace. He was going to grow like a garden abandoned, wild and emboldened, he was going to curl himself around Jesse McCree and love him like he deserved to be loved, he was going to identify all the things that made him happy and be certain that they were all performed at least once a day. 

He was going to get better with Jesse McCree’s arms around his waist, with his cheeks kissed often, his belly full and his heart on his sleeve. 

“Hey, darlin’?” 

“Yes, Jesse?” He hummed. 

“Do you think we could get a dog?” 

He laughed and he’d never felt lighter. 

“If you so wish, Jesse.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey. 
> 
> I know at this point I usually make a joke, and I will, give me time.
> 
> But first I just wanted to take a moment to say thank you. Truthfully, this was the first fic I'd written in a really long time, and it really reignited a love I'd thought I'd lost when I became an adult. There's still a lot about this fic that I don't like, things that I wish I'd done better, cliches that could have been a touch better hidden, characterisations that didn't fit quite right, but it's one of the first creative things I've done since I started working full time and I'm really thankful to have been given the opportunity, to have been given your time, taken out of your undoubtedly, equally hectic lives. 
> 
> So thank you to everyone commented, everyone who left kudos, everyone who even spared this a glance. A special shout out to: ilikeyoumoderately, CrowsAreNotRavens, th3darklady, lethe, ryan/scarlet, Floatinglonewanderer, Rizzlemydizzlefizzle, and Freebooter4Ever. Thanks fellas. 
> 
> Find me on Tumblr at https://spursandstars.tumblr.com I crave conversation like a bleating goat out your window
> 
> Also and finally,
> 
> Hanzo: *Thinking deeply about redemption, what it means to heal purposefully and creating the sort of environment that will be able to support that growth* 
> 
> Jesse: I want a dog.


End file.
